


Of Political Arrangements & Romantic Gifts

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Far Future, Kate Argent is awful, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Post War, Prince Stiles, Slow Burn, Victorian era, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: The wedding of Governor Derek Hale to the beloved Prince Stiles Stilinski of Beacon is the first of its kind, after the war.The first Alpha werewolf to marry one of the recently deposed aristocracy.It’s for the good of theirpeople.It’s an arrangement, one Stiles loathes.But as Stiles learns more about werewolves and his grumpy husband. As Derek watches his proud, clumsy prince--Maybe an arrangement isn’t all it can be.Maybe what’s good for the people can be exactly what both of them need.





	1. In which two souls ponder the changes of the recent past.

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally time!!! You guys!!! I am so excited to share this with y'all. I wrote it for [thealphasspark](http://thealphasspark.com/private/175759858097/tumblr_pbo3zdebhe1rzrh0n) who created the most gorgeous art for it! I really loved the art and writing this story so I am thrilled to share it!!  
> And the so very lovely aylathebunny beta'd and entertained me while I wrote!

[ ](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BVlY64FwHk4/W0VQLi0yeII/AAAAAAAADnk/cimg5TlI-aEoU_V-Mfi3vYJqMr5Qlk9GACLcBGAs/s1600/tumblr_pbo3zdebhe1rzrh0no1_1280.png)

The war changed everything.

There was no one event that triggered it, which Derek sometimes thinks is the worst part--something as devastating as a war should have a _reason_ , not the myriad cascading events that was the actual cause.

There was the aristocracy and the widening gap between them and the lower working classes. There was the famine that left so many dead, and so many starving, but never touched the lavish parties and frivolous excesses of the nobility.

There was the plague that followed the famine, that killed the weak and _so_ many were weak.

There was--maybe most telling--the slaughter of a small village in the Argent Kingdom, a peaceful hamlet under the protection of Deucalion's pack, and the bloodbath that followed.

Derek shifts, uncomfortable in his high collared suit and shirt. The clock ticks, irritating and familiar, and he stares out at the rolling hills just beyond the heavy glass window.

The war raged for three years and by the end of it the nobility were deposed, the kings of the of New Victoria dethroned and the Alphas of the packs that had won the war--that had turned the tide to crush the armies of the kings and queens--they were installed in those same castles and manors the kings had once sat in and titled governor and told not to make the same fucking mistakes.

It is ludicrous.

They weren’t governors. They sure as hell weren’t kings, and Derek resents it, every time a advisor murmurs another ridiculous rule of social etiquette.

But. He is _tired_ of fighting.

He is the son of Talia Hale of the Alpha Council and he fought the war on the front lines for three years and he longs for peace, for the quiet of his home and the safety of his pack, and the woods alive and green around him.

He longs for the moon shining and stripping him down to the wolf that he is, washing away the aristocracy being forced upon his shoulders, until he is nothing but an animal, and life is simple again.

He watches the horseless carriage approaching and hears Deaton’s footsteps coming closer to his study and he sighs to himself.

Because he might want that--he might want nothing more than his little home on the edge of Hale land and his pretty wife and wood to work under his hand--but that’s not his life. Not anymore.

The war changed that too.

 

~*~

 

When Stiles was twelve, his father stood in black regalia next to an empty throne and told their kingdom their queen was dead.

He remembers that moment more than any of the funeral, remembers it even more than Lady Lydia kissing him on the cheek at the somber reception following the funeral, where Stiles stood next to his father for four house in an endless receiving line, and listened to a parade of nobles and commoners alike praise his mother.

He wanted to scream that they didn’t _know_ , that they were lying bastards because they didn’t _know her_ , she was _his_.

But the day his mother died--that day was sunny and bright and his father was out in the courtyard, training with some of his guards, while Stiles sat with the Queen and his screaming shook the quiet day and brought his father running. Within the hour, the servants  had dressed him in black, and he was placed, still and silent, next to his father on a dias that should hold one more, the bright shining heart of them, and thought to himself--nothing would ever be the same.

He had a moment like that, again, when news of the Argent slaughter reached Beacon. He listened to word trickle in, of the alpha Deucalion's fury and killings, of the Argents sending their own troops to meet the werewolves, and how they were decimated, until Baroness Kate ran, abandoned her brother to the battle and hid in the thick, armored walls of their castle, a protective dome keeping out friend and foe alike.

Deucalion killed the townspeople, left their corpses at the shimmering edge of their shield, but Kate hid and when she emerged--she came armed with weapons to kill the werewolves.

He remembers hearing about that, whispers from Scott and communiques sent to his father that he had glimpsed before the King ordered him back to his studies.

He remembers thinking, _this changes things. Nothing will ever be the same._

It wasn’t. He stands now in his cramped suite of rooms in their tiny townhouse and thinks, bitterly, that absolutely nothing is the same.

It never will be again.

“Lady Lydia has asked that you come to call, Your Highness.”

He makes a face but nods to Parrish, the only valet that stayed with the royal family when they were so abruptly dethroned. He isn’t a prince, not anymore. Clinging to a useless title is as embarrassing as it is infuriating.

But the last time he mentioned dropping it, his father looked at him like he’d shot the family dog--not that they ever _had_ a dog, Lady McCall said they were too noisy and dirty for a prince--so he laughed it away as a badly timed jest and never brought it up again.

Lady Lydia would entertain him for a few hours, and maybe, if he was lucky, Scott and Lady Kira would join them for evening, and that would fill another day in an endless litany of days.

He stares down the drive that he watched his father’s carriage depart down an hour ago and things--something.

Something _has_ to change.


	2. In Which An Arrangement is Proposed.

Derek grits his teeth as the spoon clinks against china, noisy, before the once king of Beacon sips his tea. He makes a face, so quickly masked by a politely bland stare that Derek thinks he imagined it. 

“Majesty,” Derek begins and behind him his valet stirs, displeased. Derek ignores him and watches the king. “I want to propose an arrangement.” 

“So you said,” the king says. He sets his tea down with a clatter and reaches for a scone, a slightly defiant look on his face, before he leans back. “I’m hardly in a position to deny you anything.” He bites into the scone, and adds, almost an afterthought after swallowing, “Governor.” 

Derek doesn’t growl. His gums itch at the blatant disrespect and he wants to snarl, but he merely smiles, and crosses his legs, leaning back in his seat and lacing his fingers together. 

_ Civility matters, brother. Give them no reason to think we are animals, and they will not treat us as such.  _

“We are, both of us, in a position we did not ask for. The war affected everyone,” Derek begins and the King snorts, an undignified sound. 

“Son, you are sitting in my palace, on my throne. The war left you on top of the world and gave me a useless title. Please, tell me what the war did to us.” 

“I didn’t ask for this,” Derek says, stiffly. 

“But you took it. When the Alpha Council gave out the territories and kingdoms--you  _ took  _ it.” 

Derek inclines his head slightly, allowing that this is true. “We are all bound by position and duty.” 

The king’s eyes narrow and he sighs, drooping in his seat. “That’s the damn truth,” he mutters. He finishes the scone almost angrily and then dusts his hands off. “Fine. What can I do for you, Governor.” 

There is no way to say this delicately. He’s considered it for days, and there is  _ no _ way to ease into it. He straightens, steeling his spine and says, “I know that you care about your people. And I want to be good to them--I know that no one is happy about the transition. The people love their Royals.” 

King John watches him, gaze narrow and thoughtful and Derek blurts out, “I would marry your son.” 

A stillness settles over the room that feels dangerous and he remembers the stories, that King John led every battle to defend Beacon through the war, his son ruling in his stead, that he was a fierce soldier, respected by his soldiers and beloved by his people. That he was devoted to his only child and savagely protective.

Of all the royal shoes to fill, Derek thought these might be the hardest. Beacon was small and insignificant in the grand scheme of the kingdom--it’s why the Alpha Council gave it to him--but he still had to replace a beloved and respected King. 

“ _ What _ did you say?” 

“Your people--they love him. It would earn their goodwill, to see the Governor married to the beloved prince, would it not? Ease the transition of power. And it would give a prince with a title even you call useless a purpose. Not the one he was born to, perhaps, but the best that I can offer, the closest to reigning that any royal can expect.” 

“You want to  _ marry _ my son.” It isn’t a question, said so flatly that Derek almost flinches, but he nods, once. 

“Governor. One of the only good things to come out of being deposed and made useless is that I  _ don’t _ have to force my son into a loveless arranged marriage.” 

“I understand that. But, Majesty. Tell me. What is waiting for him? He was born and raised to be something that no longer exists. What will he do in this new world?” 

The King’s scent goes sharp and hot with fury and Derek lifts his hand. “I am not saying that to flaunt my position. I am asking, genuinely, what are his plans. What will he do?” 

“He is not a prince, anymore. He could do anything,” John snaps. 

“He’ll always be a prince. Society will never allow him to be anything  _ less _ than a prince.” 

John glares at him and Derek sighs. “It would help the people, and him, I think. It would help  _ me _ and I know you have no reason to help me. But would you consider it?” 

“No,” John says immediately, and Derek feels his heart trip, before he huffs. “But I will allow him the chance to consider it.” 

 

~*~ 

 

Stiles is, all things considered, a very poor excuse for a prince. 

He was not especially handsome, nor muscular.  He did not like the strict rules of society, the way battles were often waged with manners and veiled insults. He did not like playing idly at cards with other aristocrats and wasting his father's treasury on women and horses. 

He especially hated the sycophants that circled him. 

He preferred the company of a select few, rabid in his protection and devotion, could most often be found in front of the sleek monitors in his father's locked study, reading the wealth of information still kept on the network only high ranking military and sovereign royals were granted access to. 

He smelled, often, of chemical and fire from Lady Lydia’s laboratory, and was bruised more often than he wasn't, his clumsy flailing proving harmful to his health. 

He  _ could _ play the part, could don his formal attire and play along to the script and manners that Society dictated. He  _ could  _ do it--he was his mother's son--but given a choice he wouldn't. 

He didn't enjoy it. 

His father often told him it was a cruel twist of fate to make two men so unsuited for pageantry the royal family. 

Today, though. Today he has no choice, and he wears his finery--the high collared shirt, the waistcoat, the suit coat and tails, the carefully tailored pants--like a different kind of armor. 

He is accompanied by Lord Scott and his valet, Liam, and only managed to keep his father from coming by threatening to not listen to Governor Hale’s proposition at all. 

“Do you know what he wants?” Scott asks and Stiles shakes his head. Scott was born common, but he had been Stiles constant companion since before they were toddling around driving their mothers insane, and Queen Claudia had quickly elevated Melissa to Lady and granted her a tiny parcel of land, if only because she needed the companionship. 

It earned a few raised eyebrows in Society, but neither were much concerned with that. 

“Dad didn’t say. Just that my presence was required.” 

The horseless carriage rattles to a stop in front of the Governor’s palace, and Stiles stares up at the familiar facade. 

It’s the first time he’s been back since the war ended and he was so summarily deposed by the Alpha Council. But before that--it’s where he lived for nineteen years, the halls that he roamed, the place he grew up and watched his mother die. 

He doesn’t want to go inside. 

Scott and Liam wait, patient, that quiet watchful stillness that makes Stiles want to twitch out of his skin. It’s that quiet that makes him nod. Scott smiles, opening the door and unfolding himself, slipping easily into the air of aristocracy that he so often forgets when he’s alone with Stiles. 

It makes him grin, and he smoothes a hand down his suit coat as he follows, letting Liam knock to announce him. 

 

~*~

 

Derek Hale, Governor of Beacon, minor alpha with familial ties to the Alpha Council and all around war hero, is, Stiles decides, an ass. 

He paces through the library again, a familiar track that barely causes Scott or Liam to stir. “It’s been nearly an  _ hour. _ ”

“Maybe he’s busy,” Scott says, and Stiles snarls at him, something that makes his best friend smile. 

And that’s when Derek stalks into the room. 

There is no other word for it. 

He’s a tall man, of a height with the prince, with dark hair and scruff that Society will loathe but Stiles finds meticulously sculpted and intriguing. His skin is just slightly golden, and his eyes are narrow and pale, watching Stiles as he stalks into the room. He moves like a predator, all power and threat barely contained in skin and tailored black suit, and it makes Stiles go still and considering. 

He’s used to powerful men and women, has spent his entire life with them, and Derek Hale--Derek Hale is something he’s never seen before. 

And the way Derek is staring at him, his eyes widening a little, his step faltering--he has the distinct and uneasy feeling that the same is true of him. 

“Governor Hale,” he says, tilting his head just a little, not quite baring his neck for the werewolf, but a gesture of respect nonetheless. 

“Your Highness,” Derek murmurs and--shockingly--does the same. 

Stiles blinks, and Derek nods at the chairs. His valet has settled near the door, and Scott is alert, but not stirring, not coming near. Stiles seats himself in his favorite chair and the governor halts, redirects to the couch that Stiles knows is uncomfortable and stiff. 

“Have you considered my proposal?” he asks, and Stiles is struck by the startlingly soft voice, higher than it should be, almost shy. 

He wants to drag conversation from this man, just to hear every nuance of his musical voice, and--Stiles blinks. He hates him. He’s hated Derek since they received word he would be inhabiting the Palace as governor and the king and his court were expected to vacate and renounce their titles. 

This man took  _ everything _ from his father, from his  _ family _ and he hates him. 

“I suppose I’d need to hear it before I dismiss it,” Stiles says, and Derek’s gaze snaps up to him, startled. “His Majesty is not a message boy, Governor. If you have something to ask me--ask.” 

Derek blinks and his mouth opens, distractingly wet and pink. There is a flush in his cheeks and in the tips of is ears. “I--I proposed an alliance between the royal family and myself.” 

Stiles goes still. Scott is still murmuring to Liam, hasn’t quite filtered those words down to what they mean. But Stiles--who has known since he was old enough to declare his love for Lady Lydia what an arranged marriage was and that he was destined for one--Stiles knows what that means. And he thought he was long past this, that the war and the Alpha Council and his  _ meaningless fucking title _ had made this a long distant worry that would never be his reality. 

And yet. 

Derek looks uncomfortable and anxious and Society dictates he should redirect the conversation until the discomfort has passed. 

But Stiles has always been an especially bad prince with very little regard for the rules of Society, and he blurts out, shocked and disbelieving, “You want to  _ marry me?”  _


	3. In which a wedding occurs, and vows are exchanged.

The Palace is awash in servants and visiting werewolves and it makes him anxious. The Palace has never truly felt like home, carries the scent of too many people he doesn’t know or trust, is too big and echoing open, too indefensible. 

But now, with it filled to bursting with people he doesn’t trust, he wants to bolt, wants to shift and howl until his betas gather at his side and run until the orderly chaos fades behind him. 

He thinks Prince Stiles has the best of it, in the stately townhouse he and his father live in. 

He visited it, a few weeks ago, one week after Stiles accepted the desperate proposal, the one he’d  _ laughed _ at when Derek sat in this same study and proposed it. 

Stiles was--unexpected. 

He was gorgeous, something Erica was quick to point out when she leaned against his shoulder and watched through the window at the horseless carriage drawing him away. 

He was  _ angry _ , and that Derek could understand that, because anger had been his constant companion since he found Paige dead in their little yard, her throat slit and the Argent’s seal burned into her pale belly. 

He had laughed and his eyes had sparked with fury and he’d called Derek a ignorant beast, a usurping thief, a base imposter, his tone dripping venom while he carefully sipped his tea and daintily bit into sandwiches that Boyd had prepared. His valet and chaperone had groaned and hissed warnings, and the Prince had ignored them and told Derek exactly where he could shove his proposal, and Derek was very sure that kind of language was not approved of in Society--if only because Cora had used it once and offended a Countess. 

He’d swept out with another cutting insult delivered in honeyed tones and polite smiles and Derek--

Derek had laughed. 

For the first time since the war ended and he was placed in this damn position--he’d laughed, shocked and intrigued and thoroughly convinced he’d never see the Prince of Beacon again. 

Lord Scott delivered a letter three days later, while Derek glared at contracts and land grants, and he’d blinked at the minor Lord, standing in his study like he belonged there, a small smile on his face and a letter in his hand. 

He wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d snatched the offered letter from Lord Scott and hurried to his private rooms, to inhale the traces of Stiles that still clung to it, before he opened it. 

 

_ Governor Hale,  _

 

_ I accept. For the people of Beacon, who I could not bear to leave with a power hungry mannerless troglodyte. Lady Lydia of Eichan Wood  will make arrangements.  _

 

_ By My Hand, _

_ Stiles~ _

 

That was a month and more past now, and tomorrow--tomorrow he would stand before the deposed King and his sister and the people of Beacon and he would wed their beloved Prince. 

Who, Derek thought, would very much like to stab him in his sleep. 

Erica cackled when she first heard, and said that things with them would never be boring, and that was a truth he didn’t want to contemplate right now. 

 

~*~ 

 

He’d never spent much time considering his wedding. 

That very brief consideration ended the first time he tripped into his mother’s drawing room, sneaking past her ladies to lean against her knee and let her pet his hair as he said, proudly, “I’m going to marry Lady Lydia.”

She had quietly dismissed her ladies, even Lady Melissa drawing a wide eyed Scott away and Queen Claudia knelt on the floor in front of her young son and said, softly, “Sweet Mischief. There are many things that are yours because of the family you were born to. Many things you will have that most will fight for. But the right to marry who you wish--that will never be yours.” 

He didn’t understand, really. Not then. He only knew that his Mama said no more talk of marriage, and her face was drawn and pale and severe, the way it was when she meant it, and he never mentioned Lady Lydia to her again. 

But as the years passed, and he was introduced to visiting royals, as he listened to the conversations about eligibility and Society expectations and alliances--he understood. 

And the tiny dream of love, marrying for choice and not duty--died. 

Still. For all that he has always known this is his path. It is shocking, to wake and know that at the end of the day, he will be wed to a man he knows nothing about, has spent less than an hour with, that he  _ hates. _

Duty before love, he thinks, and remembers the smiles Claudia gave her husband, slightly strained and distant. 

John loved his wife, until she died, and even now he loves her and Stiles thinks it’s that love that lights the hope he sees in his father's eyes. 

But Stiles isn't that hopeful. He knows what kind of man Derek Hale is, and he despite that, he hates him. 

He hates him for making him do this.

He would stand in front of his father and country and marry the new Governor and he would be the perfect Prince and husband. 

But love was not part of the arrangement and he was viciously happy with that. 

 

~*~ 

 

Derek had wanted a small wedding. 

Stiles had actually agreed with him, insisted nothing more was necessary. 

Lydia, then, was the reason for the spectacle he found himself in the midst of. Lady Lydia of Eichan Wood, she was a minor noble before the war with very little power--but she was brilliant and ruthless and Prince Stiles doted on her, and when she learned of the impending wedding, she bullied her way into an audience with King John and sent a missive to Alpha Hale on the Alpha Council, and within a day, the quiet wedding in front of a chaplain was dismissed and chaos descended. 

_ It was a brilliant idea, Derek. But a politically advantageous marriage does no good if no one is aware of it. _

He snarls at his sister’s voice in his head, and tugs on the collar of his uniform. 

That was Lady Lydia’s idea. Remind the good people of Beacon that he was a war hero by dressing him in the finery and medals he had been awarded at the end of the war. 

Laura calmly slaps his hand away from his collar and peers into what had once been the throne room. “Ready?” she murmurs. 

Derek takes a deep breath, and the synthetic trumpets blare to life, a brassy call that demands a response. 

Derek twitches his shoulders straight and nods. Boyd shoves the throne room doors wide and he stalks in, his pack arrayed behind him, Laura at his right hand. 

Lydia had been furious when he announced that his pack would walk with him, but he wouldn’t bend on that one nod to werewolf customs.

He was wedding a Prince, and if he were to take a werewolf of similar stature, it would be an alliance to strengthen both packs--and both packs would stand in honor of it. It was a challenge, a display of strength that demanded recognition--but it was also a courtesy, a gesture of the deep respect Derek and his pack held for the King and his son. 

Derek still wasn’t sure Lady Lydia understood that, and he was damn sure that the many human members of Society whispering as they stalked up the aisle didn’t--but he thought from the gleam in King John’s eyes, that maybe he did. 

Maybe Stiles would. 

The trumpets die and a flute pierces the air. Derek feels the air shift as the guests turn and he turns with them. 

Stiles is there.

In a simple, dark gray suit, fitted to his slim form and broad shoulders, the open jacket and low collared buttoned shirt leave his neck deliciously bare. A belt hangs at his hips, low and distracting and it takes Derek a long moment to realize that his groom is wearing a wickedly curved dagger to his own wedding, that he comes dressed in finery and bare-foot, his hair messy and unadorned by his crown. 

He is breathtakingly beautiful and as he stands in front of Derek, his sharp gaze taking in the pack behind him--this is a horrible idea. 

Because Stiles spitting mad and insulting him in the rigidly polite bounds of Society--that Derek can handle. 

Stiles barefoot and surrounded by the fresh green boughs and white roses Lydia has ordered everywhere, in mourning grey and black and armed and proud--Derek  _ wants _ this Stiles, wants to claim and keep and mate. 

Stiles watches him and repeats the vows to bind them together in the eyes of the government and Society, and his gaze never meets Derek’s, never falters or warms. And when they kiss, to thunderous applause and Erica’s gleeful howls, Stiles murmurs against his lips, “I am your husband, Derek. But you will  _ never _ have  _ me.”  _


	4. In which there is a move, an insult and an argument.

They spend a long, highly uncomfortable holiday in the Hale Manor. Derek tells him about it, about his grandfather who built it for his grandmother as a wedding gift, and Stiles watches him over a bowl of rapidly cooling soup. 

The manor is charmingly picturesque, with a cozy drawing room and roaring fireplace that Stiles wants to curl in front of with a good book. 

He doesn’t. 

He avoids that room and any other that looks remotely inviting and avoid Derek most of all. 

It bothers Stiles, that Derek still hasn’t come to his bed. 

He’s  _ relieved  _ by it, but bothered. He thinks about it, as he toys with his cold soup and listens to the epic love story of werewolves who died before he was born. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” Stiles blurts out, and immediately flushes. 

Derek is staring at him, mouth hanging open unattractively. 

Not that Stiles, with that gauche question that would make Lady Melissa bemoan his lack of manners, has a single leg to stand on. Still. The question is there, and he wants, desperately, to know what Derek’s intentions are.

“You hate me,” Derek says, slowly. Like that has anything to do with the price of bread. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Stiles says, snarkily. 

Derek’s eyes narrow. “I don’t fuck people who hate me,” he says, evenly. 

That ends any further attempt at small talk, and they spend the remainder of their wedding holiday in opposite ends of the manor. On the last night there, while Derek runs through the woods, or rides his ridiculous black stallion, or whatever it is werewolves do when they aren’t stealing the lives of good people--Stiles creeps into the drawing room and lights a fire, and curls there with a small glass of cognac and a thick book on the Last War. He reads there, until his eyes finally close, and he falls asleep curled there. 

When he wakes, the book is on the table, his page marked and a blanket is tucked around him, the fire still crackling. He wonders if it could be one of the staff before he remembers Derek’s monologue about the estate, that it is run entirely by automatons. He flushes and pushes the thought of Derek taking care of him away as he snuggles into the blanket and goes back to sleep. 

 

~*~ 

 

They are nearing King John’s estate, when a hologram appears, Lady Lydia’s lovely, impatient face appearing. “Stiles. Where the hell are you?” 

“Uh,” he says, eloquently. 

“We’ll reach his father’s home within the hour, Lady,” Derek says politely. 

“Go to the palace,” she says, shortly. “Your staff moved all of his belongings into the Green Suite.” 

“ _ What?”  _ Stiles yelps. “Why wasn’t I told?” 

“You just were,” Lydia says, evenly. “You are  _ married _ , Stiles. It’s not appropriate for you to live with your father.” 

Stiles hisses, wordless and furious and she nods, sharply. “I’m leaving. I’ll come to call later this week, Stiles. Governor, good evening.” 

“Good evening, Lady Eichan,” Derek murmurs, absently, before she vanishes. 

“Did you do this?” Stiles snaps, before Derek can say anything, and Derek blinks. 

“I was with you,” he says, slowly. “How the hell could I have done this?” 

Stiles grumbles wordlessly and Derek huffs. “If I know my pack and my sister--it was Erica and Laura’s brilliant plan.” 

Stiles glares at him, but doesn’t actually answer. Not until they pull up to the Palace and Derek pushes the door open, offering his husband his hand to descend. Stiles pointedly ignores it, but puts a hand on Derek’s chest once clear of the carriage. 

It is the first time he’s touched Derek since they danced at the wedding reception. 

He does  _ not _ shiver. 

“I do not appreciate my autonomy being trampled. You put your dogs on a leash or this marriage is going to be miserable for both of us,” Stiles snarls. 

Derek stiffens, but Stiles is already storming up the steps, and Derek doesn’t have a chance to respond. He follows his irate husband as one of the servants pulls the door open, and Derek nods, dismissing the man before turning his attention on Stiles. Who is standing in the middle of the receiving hall, stripping off his gloves and scarf. He tosses the long overcoat on the mahogany table and unbuttons the high collar of his shirt, and Derek’s mouth goes dry. 

A low wolf whistle jerks his attention from the husband who is almost stripping in the front hall to Erica, leading his small pack down the grand staircase.

“Did you make that much progress, boss?” she asks, cheekily, and Derek flushes. 

Stiles, though. 

Stiles has gone almost painfully still, watching the pack descend and Derek moves, belatedly. 

“Prince Stiles, this is my pack--Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey,” he points at them, and then the blonde man reclining on the stairs above them. “And Lord Jackson Whittemore.” He licks his lips, “I’m not sure what you know about packs but--”

“I don’t care,” Stiles says, abruptly, turning away from them. Erica’s mouth falls open and Jackson’s eyes glow blue for a moment, before he gets a grip on himself. “Why are they here?” 

“They are my pack,” Derek says, slowly, not quite understanding. 

“And you are Governor. And my husband. Your strays cannot just fill our home.” Stiles says precisely. 

“ _ Strays?”  _ Erica yelps and Derek lifts a hand to silence her. She growls, but goes quiet. 

“Husband,” Derek begins. “Wolf packs live together.” 

Stiles blinks at him. Once. Twice. And then smiles, wide and so furious Derek has to force himself to remain still, to not fall back a step. “Very well. Your pack remains. I will move back to my father’s home in the morning.” 

“We are married,” Derek protests and Stiles laughs. 

“And your  _ pack _ doesn’t seem to care,” Stiles snaps. “You don’t seem to care, or they wouldn’t  _ be here.” _

Derek stares at him and Stiles takes a deep breath, reining in his temper. He gathers his discarded jacket and gloves and says, simply. “I married you, for the good of Beacon. But I did not agree to live with a pack of common ‘wolves. I won’t. I am a  _ prince _ and even if you don’t care what Society says about us, I have to.” 

Stiles doesn’t give him time to respond, just stalks past the shocked werewolves, up the stairs and down the hall until a door slams deep within the palace and Derek flinches. 

Erica stares at him--they all stare at him, disbelieving and shocked and Isaac’s big eyes filled with hurt. 

“What the hell was  _ that?” _ Erica demands. 

 

~*~ 

 

His hands are shaking when he locks the doors behind him. The Green Suite was his childhood bedroom and he’s grateful that Lydia had his things brought here, even if his skin crawls at the thought of his life being unpacked by strangers. 

He  _ hates _ this. 

At the Manor he had not quite forgotten what he had agreed to, how deeply his life was changing, but he’d managed to ignore it. 

Here, with his whole life laid out by unfamiliar hands, with strangers leering at him, and Derek’s intimidating presence too close to him--here he  _ can’t _ ignore it and it crashes down on him suddenly. 

Lady Melissa would be furious if she had seen that display downstairs, appalled at his rudeness and lack of manners. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad.

His breath is tight and sharp in his chest as he drops onto the bed, and then he remembers what he read, during the war, about werewolf senses, and he scrambles up, darting into the bathroom. It’s fully automated, and he keys in a familiar code to bring the water on, letting it splatter into the clawfoot ivory tub as he crouches, shaking and struggling to breath. 

Panic and fear and raw  _ anger _ rip through him, fighting for dominance and Stiles would laugh at the absurdity of it if he could  _ breath.  _

It lasts for what feels like forever, until the bathroom swirls with steam and his knees ache from crouching on the tile and he’s lightheaded and dragging in deep, raw breathes. There are tears on his cheeks and his fingers shake as he clambers to his feet and strips, dropping his clothes carelessly to the tile before he steps into the shower.

When he emerges, wrapped only in a towel and so tired he can barely stay upright, Derek is sitting, stiff and angry, on the edge of his bed. 

Stiles shrieks and scrambles back a step. “What are you  _ doing?” _

“Waiting for you,” Derek says, tersely. “We need to talk.” 

He opens his mouth and then closes it again, and then snaps, “We had a week at the manor to talk and you ignored me.  _ Now _ you want to talk?” 

“At the manor, you hadn’t insulted me and my pack and challenged my authority while rejecting your position,” Derek snaps. 

Stiles blinks and shoves his hair out of his face. Derek’s gaze flicks over his bare wet chest. and Stiles has the absurd urge to cover himself. 

“You cannot expect me to simply accept a host of wild werewolves--” 

“Shut  _ up, _ Stiles,” Derek snarls, jerking to his feet. “I listened to you, I know exactly what you think of my pack. I  _ know _ you think we’re animals.” 

Stiles wants to flinch, wants to protest. But it’s not completely untrue. 

“Those four are my family,” Derek says, evenly. “Just as your father is your family. Would you tolerate me insulting him?” 

“You took his bloody throne,” Stiles snarls. 

“ _ I did nothing,”  _ Derek shouts. “I was given a kingdom I do not want and did not ask for and I am  _ trying _ to do what is best for both your people and the werewolves of Beacon. It is the  _ only _ reason I married you.” 

Stiles’ jaw is clenched and his hands are trembling, but he doesn’t respond. 

“They are my pack and you will not disrespect them. Hate me if you must--I knew that you would. But they did nothing to earn that and I will not allow your cruelty to hurt them.” 

Derek stands and moves to the door, and Stiles bites out, “But they can hurt me. Your pack, being here--you have no idea what Society will think, what they will whisper. Do you care about my reputation at all? They don’t  _ have _ to live here.” 

Derek glances back at him, and his expression is cold and blank. “If you knew anything at all about werewolf packs, if Society  _ cared  _ about our world as much as you demand we care about yours, you wouldn’t ask that question.” 

Stiles stands there, dripping and wrapped in his thin towel as his husband quietly leaves, and he doesn’t know why he feels like he’s let the other man down--or why he cares. 

 


	5. In which the Governor and Prince make their Society debut, an insult is issued, and an argument overheard

He gives in by noon the following day. He tells himself it’s because he’s  _ curious _ , not because he cares what Derek thinks. 

Scott gives him a dubious look, but does as asked, and by the following morning, returns with a stack of chips that Stiles feeds into his tab. Then he curls in his bed, with his steaming black coffee, and he reads until his eyes ache. 

He understands the war--he was raised a Prince, and politics was his first language, Society and the intricacies of it’s many rules bred into him at his mother’s knee. 

There was a time, before the Last War, when there was no royalty, no nobility. There was no Society, just a furious world that fought over every slight, real or imagined, so divided that the third world war was inevitable. 

After, when the world was smoldering, and the military and political leaders emerged from the ruins, they talked. They forced themselves to listen, adhered to strict rules of interaction to prevent another descent into bloody conflict. 

They founded a new civil order, and named the devastating fight the Last War, and hoped that it would suffice.

And it worked. 

It wasn’t easy and with the flood of technology and information, there was no way to sustain it. The lengths those men and women went to, to preserve peace, to restore civility, was drastic and the world changed drastically in accordance. 

Stiles knew that, and while he sometimes thought that it was absurd, the etiquette of Society--he understood it, too. More than most, he understood--most of the people weren’t granted the access to information that he had, a privilege of rank that he had always taken for granted. 

But for all that he knew  _ his _ history and the reasons for it--he had never stopped to wonder about werewolves, the wild creatures who lived alongside them and fought them and took everything from him. He had never stopped to find out how they lived or why and it occurs to him, as the sun rises and his eyes burn and he stares at the glowing tab, that overlooking them was a fucking mistake. 

 

~*~ 

 

He emerges on the third day, in riding breeches and a loose shirt that leaves too much of his chest bare. Derek finds the curve of his legs in tight pants and tall boots, the delicate roundness of his ass and the long lines of his fingers and broad pale chest utterly distracting. 

He is absurdly glad that Erica has absented herself from breakfast. She and Jackson are lazy in the mornings and won’t emerge from their rooms until much closer to noon. Isaac goes still as Stiles slips into his seat, as Lord Scott assumes a place at the door. Boyd pauses, watching them both and Derek flicks a deliberate look at his betas and they return to their breakfast without comment. 

“Countess Kira is hosting a party this Saturday,” Stiles says abruptly and Derek freezes. 

“That’s...nice?” 

Stiles gives him an unimpressed stares. “We’re going.” 

“I don’t go to parties,” Derek says automatically. 

“Believe me, I am very aware of that,” Stiles says. “But if you want to connect with Beacon, you’ll go.” 

Derek lets a growl rumble in his chest, and Isaac whines, tilting his head to subtly bare his throat. Stiles--Stiles stares at him, steady and unflinching. 

“You entered this marriage because it will be good for the people. Because you care about that, despite us giving you no reason to. I am asking you, Alpha, to trust me. That I would not ask this of you, without reason.” 

Derek feels like his breath is caught in his throat, still hung on the casual use of Alpha. It slips against his skin like a caress, something he is called so rarely now, here. Here he is Governor and Sir and never Alpha, and it feels  _ wrong _ . 

Stiles stares, quiet and patient and waiting. Derek huffs out a breath and nods, shortly. 

“For a short time,” he allows and Stiles rewards with him with a small, pleased smile. 

 

~*~

 

Derek, Stiles realizes as the horseless carriage pulls up to Countess Kira’s townhouse, is nervous. 

He is a werewolf that could kill any member of Society with almost no effort, and he’s twitching in his seat, eyes wide and breath choppy. It’s--confusing. 

And adorable. 

“Remember,” Stiles murmurs, as he adjusts his gloves. “They are curious and beholden to you. Your behavior tonight will shape their opinion, but  _ you  _ are the Alpha of Beacon. If you are confused or uncomfortable, tell me, or Scott if I am occupied, and we leave. Understand?” 

“You don’t want to leave,” Derek protests. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Derek, I am the Prince and you are the Governor and appearing in public is required. But if I had my wish, I would be home, reading or watching the new scifi vid.” 

Derek perks up, gives him a hopeful look. “You like scifi?” 

Stiles blinks, because is that actually what Derek took from this? Then he realizes just how little they know of each other and he flushes. “Um. Yes. I--I wanted to write it, but. Society doesn’t approve of Princes doing anything that isn’t serving the army.” 

Derek frowns and Stiles shoves open the door. “Come on. We’re already causing them to talk.” 

His husband follows, quiet, and Stiles takes his arm, as they walk inside. 

He feels a fine tremor go through Derek as they enter, the swirl of voices and body heat, brightly colored dresses and dark suits blurring the tastefully decorated parlor hall of Countess Kira’s home. A clarion voice announces them, and almost as one, the gathered aristocracy turns to peer curiously at them. 

Derek shifts, and Stiles squeezes his arm, hoping that it reassures him as he smiles at Kira, approaching with a wide smile in a pale green dress. “Your Highness, Governor Hale! I’m so glad you could come. I wasn’t sure you would be up to a night in Society, quite yet.” 

Stiles bows over her hand, kissed it and smiles. “And miss one of your parties, Your Excellency? Never.” 

She laughs and Stiles turns slightly, “Husband, I would like to introduce my dear friend, Countess Kira Yukimura. We grew up together. Her mother is royalty in New Tokyo, but Countess Kira attended school in Beacon while she lived with a family friend.” 

“Mother is a duchess,” Lady Kira says, and she offers Derek a sunny smile. “I’m so glad you came, Governor. I was unable to attend the wedding and I’m  _ dying _ to tell you about Stiles as a little boy.” 

Derek glances at his husband, a blush high in pale cheeks and grins. “I would like that, Your Excellency. You’ll have to come to the Palace.” Stiles sputters and Derek huffs a laugh. “Soon, I think.” 

Kira winks and Stiles grumbles playfully as he draws Derek deeper into the house.  

 

~*~

 

It isn’t as horrible as Derek thinks it will be. 

It’s loud and that is abrasive, if only because his senses are heightened compared to the humans the party is meant to accommodate. But it’s  _ interesting. _

No. That isn’t strictly true. Lord Scott is friendly, and Countess Kira is a bubbly presence that swirls close and is pulled away. There are a few who approach him, the kind he recognizes, because they’re scraping and servile, prattling on about the wonders the Alpha Council will do for the country, what he will do for Beacon, and how they can help. 

They speak pretty insults and genteel slights of the king they so recently served, and Derek watches them, his face blank, eyebrows furrowed. 

How is it that  _ none _ of Society knew the first thing about werewolves? 

Mostly, though--he watches Stiles. 

He’s seen his husband at their wedding and the formal reception, and in the Manor, ghostlike and speaking only when he thought himself alone, he’s seen him furious and fighting, and murmuring to Scott as they walk through the stables. 

But he realizes, watching him now, that he has seen  _ Stiles _ in those occasions. This--this is the first time he is seeing  _ Prince _ Stiles, arrogant and kind and beautiful as he moves through the crowds. Lady Lydia is on his arm, steering him and murmuring in his ear and Stiles allows it, his expression going from earnest and warm to thoughtful reserve to genuine delight, as people parade by and he grants them each his attention. It’s dizzying and fascinating and he can’t look away. 

Countess Kira appears at his elbow and she stands close, but not too close, doesn’t brush against him as she follows his gaze. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?” she says, fondly and Derek grunts, wordlessly agreeing. Her eyes warm a little and she lets her fingers rest just above his hand. “Dance with me, Governor.” 

He hesitates and she slides dainty white gloves on before she gives him an expectant look. 

“Dance with me.” 

He allows her to tug him into the swirling couples and her hand is light and tiny in his as he bows and they fall into the formal dance, the measured steps, the drawing near and swirling away, a slow and stately seduction. 

“I was told that the marriage is one of political expediency,” Kira says, her voice pitched low enough that only his sensitive ears pick up on it. She rolls her eyes at his shocked stare. “The family that fostered me--they are not quite Society, but they close enough to count. And Grandmother Satomi--you may have heard of her.” She’s watching Derek, her eyes patiently amused and it falls into place, suddenly, the way she bared her neck for him, the delicate gloves and careful distance to avoid scent marking, the way she pitched her voice too low for humans but clear for him. 

“It wasn’t a full fledged pack. But Grandmother made sure we understand the broad strokes of werewolf behavior.” 

“You haven’t said,”  he murmurs and she shrugs. 

“You watch him, like he’s the moon, and you are tugged in its wake,” she says, and Derek blinks, because that’s a terrifying thought. “You could do much worse than our Prince, Alpha.” 

His gaze finds Stiles, standing on the edge of the dance floor, a patient smile on his lips, and he nods. “I know.” 

 

~*~ 

 

He lasts longer than he expects--it helps that Kira stays close, and when she leaves him, it is with Stiles or a young man who reeks of werewolf and pack, despite how human he is. He is with Mason when his temper finally breaks, as he watches a cluster of pale women in pale gowns and smelling of aroused fear skittering away from him. 

He bites back the snarl that wants to rip free and goes in search of Stiles. 

Derek hears him before he sees him, and he slows, listening. 

“What do  _ any _ of us know about the werewolves?” Stiles’ voice drips disdain, mocking. “That they’re barely more than animals driven by instinct and blood lust.” 

There’s a titter of laughter, and Derek feels his heart squeeze and he takes a step back, ready to bolt. “We’re wrong, though,” Stiles says, softly. 

Derek freezes. 

“Your Highness,” a male voice scoffs, and Stiles makes a frustrated noise, familiar already to Derek. “They’re  _ wolves. _ They’ll never belong in Society.” 

“Respectfully, Sir Liam, you don’t  _ know _ that. You have no idea what pack hierarchy and culture is like.” 

“And you do?” a pretty voice demands, scathing. 

“No,” Stiles admits. “But I know I don’t. We expect them to step into our Society, with the rules and etiquette, and judge them as lacking when they don’t--but not even our common people can do that.  _ We _ couldn’t do that if we weren’t born and bred to it, raised steeped in Society manners and demands.” 

“If they want to be a part of our Society, they need to adapt,” the same female voice snaps. 

“Read your history, Harley,” Stiles says, pleasant and cool. “The war was begun by Argents attacking the werewolves. They were happy in their packs and far from Society.” 

There’s a shocked beat of silence and then, “That bastard mutt took your father’s throne.” 

Stiles voice isn’t pleasant, when he speaks. He’s cold and furious. “That ‘bastard mutt’ is  _ my  _ husband and  _ your  _ Governor. You would do well to remember that and keep a civil tongue in your head or I  _ will _ remove it.” 

One of the ladies makes a shocked gasp, and someone says mocking, “I see the animals manners are rubbing off on you, Your Highness.” 

Enough. 

“Husband,” Derek calls, shoving the door open. Stiles is standing with four others, and he looks  _ furious _ . The other four pale when they see Derek, and he gives them a wide smile that has far too many teeth and Lady Harley makes a distressed noise. 

“I’m ready,” Derek directs at Stiles, ignoring them completely.

“Excellent. The company here is decidedly lacking,” Stiles huffs, and he strides to Derek, his hand shaking as he takes the arm Derek offers, and it warms him, that Stiles is this angry. For all the their problems and anger, Stiles is furious, on his behalf. 

They say their farewells to Countess Kira and Stiles sulks silently on his side of the carriage while they ride home, and Derek--Derek nurses the quiet hope that this marriage was not a mistake. 

That maybe, they can find common ground. 


	6. In which there are a nightmares, introspection and a disagreement with the king.

Things are not  _ easy _ after that. But they are easier. Stiles will drift into a room and not leave immediately when he finds it occupied by Derek or his pack. 

He reads constantly, and his manners shift as he does, careful respect toward werewolf sensibilities. 

He doesn’t argue with Derek in regards to the pack’s presence in the Palace, and he is polite but firm in his quiet defense of Derek and the other werewolves when he entertains. 

He doesn’t talk to Derek about it, about any of it, but he changes. 

Even the betas notice and Derek has to order Erica to the Alpha Council to keep her from heckling Stiles about it. 

One thing does not change--Stiles still holds himself apart, never quite coming close enough to touch. 

Derek thinks, sometimes, he could be Pack. But Stiles stands apart and he doesn’t know how to bring the brilliant, beautiful man closer. 

 

~*~

 

He’s sitting in the library when he hears someone step on the squeaky stair, and he stills. 

Werewolves can move without making a noise, both experience and the books he’s been devouring attest to that fact. 

That one of them didn’t remember to skip that step makes Stiles nervous. He opens the door and sees Derek and his breath catches. 

He’s bare chested, and barefoot, with sleep mussed hair, and panicky eyes. He looks gorgeous and heartbreaking and Stiles makes a small noise, halting him in his tracks. 

“Are you--” No, Stiles thinks, that’s obvious. “Would you join me?” 

Derek looks away for a moment, but he nods and pads into the room, and Stiles is careful to step away, to give him space, to pass without touching. 

“Would you like tea?” he asks, waving at the pot, trying to distract himself from how desperately he wants Derek to reach for him. 

“Why are you awake?” Derek asks, his voice raspy and Stiles shrugs. He taps his tab, and Derek eyes it briefly, his gaze flickering red before he blinks. 

“Why are you?” Stiles asks, knowing that Derek won’t answer him. 

There’s a long pulse of silence and then, quietly, “I had a nightmare.”

Stiles pauses, watching him with big eyes before he deliberately sets the tab aside and presses a cup of steaming hot tea in Derek’s hands. 

“Tell me about it.” 

“Why would you want to hear about my demons?” Derek asks, morosely. 

“Because you are my husband. Maybe this isn’t what either of us wanted, but it’s what we have, and I would like to think if I were the one waking from nightmares, you would listen to me.” 

Derek stares at him, long and unblinking. Long enough that Stiles thinks he will turn away, ignore the request, and dismiss Stiles for the night. And then, his voice rough, Derek says, “I fought--in the war, I was one of the Alphas that led our packs into battle. I never  _ wanted _ to fight. Society talks about the war like it was something grand and glorious, something to be admired. It’s not, though,” Derek’s voice cracks and Stiles shifts, anxiously. 

“What is it?” 

He laughs, but it sounds wrecked and bitter. “Hell. It’s hell wrapped in a package of necessity and maybe it is, maybe for those at home it’s necessary. But I sat in a tent with my sister’s guts spilling into my lap. I listened to my pack die, trapped behind the Argent’s mountain ash shield, run down like animals. I can tell you what my brother looks like, with his head bashed in and what my wife looked like, with her throat slit. And I can think of nothing that is so precious it necessitates that. Nothing that demands the slaughter of children in villages because they stood too near a field of battle.” 

Stiles reaches out, but jerks his hand back, clenched into a fist on his thigh. Derek stares into the fire, glassy eyed and blank. “I think sometimes I’m still there. That this is the dream, and the nightmares are real.” 

“I’m real,” Stiles says, firmly, and Derek looks at him. “This is real, Derek--I am  _ real. _ ” 

Derek shudders, the tea jostling in his grip, and Stiles seizes on the one thing he remembers that Derek enjoys. 

“Watch a vid with me?” he says and Derek blinks. He doesn’t protest though, when Stiles shifts over to sit next to him, a careful line of space between them and doesn’t comment when the credits roll and the vid begins, a far flung scifi that quickly drowns out anything but the desperate fight to survive. 

When he looks at Derek a few minutes later, the werewolf is smiling and almost asleep. 

 

~*~

 

_ Prince Stiles,  _

_ My sincerest thanks for your good company and kindness through the night. I was pleasantly surprised by your willingness to listen to me, and the comfort you offered. That is not part of our arrangement, and it was greatly appreciated.  _

_ I will be away from the Palace most of the day, attending a judiciary hearing in Beacon Heights. I wish you a good day, and anticipate our evening meal with bated breath.  _

_ Warm regards,  _

_ Derek Hale, Alpha of Beacon _

 

_ Alpha Derek,  _

_ Thanks are not necessary.  You are always welcome to find me when nightmares plague you--I don’t sleep much. Father says my mind is as restless as my body, and I think it’s probably that. I enjoy the quiet, though. I like the way anything feels possible.  _

_ You mention our arrangement. It’s not a static thing, Alpha. We are not bound by anything beyond what we both want. Perhaps as we get to know each other, we can adjust what our arrangement is.  _

_ I shall look forward to your return, husband.  _

_ S-  _

 

~*~

 

Stiles was almost vibrating out of his skin while he stood near his chair and Parrish preceded King John into the room. A tea set sat to the side and Deaton announced His Majesty in a quiet, even voice. 

“Thank you, Deaton,” Stiles says, “And welcome to the Palace, Sire.” 

John gives his son a flat stare and Stiles offers him a polite smile, perfect picture of a Society Prince until Jordan rolls his eyes and retreats. 

Then Stiles gives a happy little shout and throws himself at his dad. “Oh my god, I’ve  _ missed _ you.” 

John snorts but wraps his son in a tight hug, not saying anything about the way Stiles clings, presses his face into the King’s shoulder for a long moment before he steps away, wiping his eyes hard. 

“Son, I’m ten miles down the road,” John says, soft and exasperated. 

“So? You’re not  _ here. _ ”

“Mmm, and how are things  _ here?”  _

Stiles huffs, and drops--graceless and clumsy--on the couch as John sits himself near his son, grinning at Stiles’ dramatics. He reaches for a cookie and Stiles slaps it out of his hand, glaring. 

“They’re there!” John objects. 

“Because I haven’t trained the new staff on what you’re allowed to eat,” Stiles hisses. “Not because your diet has changed.” 

John scowls. 

“Did you know that the packs have a hierarchy, within them and in relation to other packs, that rivals the intricacies of Society?” Stiles demands suddenly. He pours the tea and drops half a cube of sugar in his father’s cup, handing it to him as he stares at his father intently. 

“I don’t know the details of it, but I figured they had to have something. The packs are too complicated--they have too many instincts competing to not have some kind of hierarchy and order.” 

“But why don’t we know? Why aren’t we talking about it?” 

“Because the Society doesn’t want to think a werewolf could ever approach their level of sophistication. Werewolves are one step above animals, how dare they emulate us.” 

“That’s  _ bullshit,”  _ Stiles spits, bristling, and John shrugs. 

“Most of Society is bullshit, kiddo. It’s why you’ve always hated it.” 

Stiles scowls, saying abruptly, “We haven’t received any invitations since the wedding.” 

John blinks at him. Says, carefully, “You’re in your honeymoon state.” 

“We attended Countess Kira’s house party,” Stiles says, standing to pace. “After our first formal appearance, the honeymoon state is no longer binding--and yet we’ve received not a single invitation.” 

John watches him, and Stiles says, “Did I ostracize myself by marrying him?” 

“Would it be horrible, if you did?” he asks, carefully.

Stiles doesn’t answer, for a long time. When he does, his voice is quiet and sad. “If I am not a Prince in Society, and not a Prince in truth--what the hell am I?”

 

~*~

 

Derek returns to the Palace late, and finds the dining room empty and dark, with only a letter waiting for him. 

_ Alpha Derek,  _

_ Your presence was missed at dinner. I have retired early after a visit from my father, but did not wish to leave you thinking me uncaring.  _

_ Perhaps tomorrow we will take a meal together.  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Prince Stiles  _

 

He rubs his face, tired and mind racing, but pleased by his husband’s thoughtfulness. 

 

~*~

 

Derek is drawn consistently away from the Palace and Stiles is left to his own devices more days than not. He tells himself it doesn’t bother him, and goes riding with Scott, long aimless rides around the countryside surrounding the Palace. 

He thinks about his father’s visit and the quiet advice he offered. 

_ If Society expects nothing of you, what would you chose to be. _

Sometimes, he wonders if it’s that simple. If it’s just a matter of reaching out and taking what he wants, the life he’s craved. 

Surely not--not when Society has always demanded so much of him and given so little in return. 

But as the weeks stretch out and his loneliness and boredom grow, as the growing lack of invitations makes it abundantly clear that Society might have adored him as their Prince, but would not tolerate him as the Alpha’s husband--

He lets himself dream. 

 

~*~

 

He barely realizes he’s looking for it, before Derek realizes there is no letter and feels a drop in his gut. 

Being Governor of Beacon has required more of his time than he ever anticipated, and he anticipates Stiles’ letters, has come to look forward to them, and the glimpse into his husband’s sharp, clever mind. 

But there is no letter and he’s confused and vaguely concerned. He makes his way deeper into the Palace, knowing that sometimes Stiles can lose himself and track of time in whatever he’s reading or researching, that he can paly a game with Lord Scott for so long he will fall asleep at it, if he is left to his own devices. 

But further exploration does not turn up a glassy eyed, sleep deprived husband, and he realizes abruptly that Stiles’ scent is stale in the house. 

Fear grips him as he takes the stairs two at at time and throws open the doors to the Green Room. 

Here the scent is almost fresh, but it’s empty, just as empty as the rest of the Palace. 

“He left this morning, Governor,” Deaton says behind him, his voice cool and blank. 

“Where is he?” 

“He did not say. Nor did he indicate when he would return.” 

The words land like the carefully planned insult they are and Derek snarls, but Deaton is already gone when he turns around, eyes flashing. 

He’s left alone in his husband’s empty rooms, furious, with nothing to spend his rage on.


	7. In which Derek sulks, Stiles has a personal crisis, and an annoying relative comes to call.

On the fifth day of his husband’s absence, Derek gets into a fight with Isaac. He pins the werewolf to the dining room table, and roars, fangs down and eyes flashing, in his beta’s face. 

The other watch, furious and resigned, and Jackson catches the younger beta when Derek tosses him aside. 

“I will banish the next to mention his name,” Derek snarls and Erica pales as the Alpha stalks out of the dining room. 

“Cancel his appointments,” she says, and Boyd fixes her with a searching look. Her expression is almost terrified. “He’s almost feral, Boyd. He--he can’t. He would attack someone and start the war all over again.” 

Boyd nods and turns to find Deaton. Jackson is watching his packmate, the one who is fearless and bold, who is reckless and quick thinking, who always knows how to handle their grumpy alpha. 

“What are you going to do?” 

Erica scowls. “I’m going to find his missing husband.” 

 

~*~

 

He knows that he needs to apologize. Knows that Isaac stunk of terror and that the question had been innocent--Derek  _ should _ know where his husband was. It was hardly Isaac’s fault that Stiles vanished without word or warning. 

Derek glances again at the slight stack of letters. In the past three days he has read them a dozen times, and each time leaves him feeling a little bit more idiotic. 

They aren’t anything to cherish. They are perfunctoruary, an exchange of schedules and greetings, a discussion of the  _ weather _ , no more or less than Stiles would offer any member of Society. 

They aren’t declarations, or evidence of growing affections, or an attempt to endear himself to Derek, or learn more about Derek. 

And he thinks, staring at them, rubbing a finger over them as his wolf whines, unhappily, that he was very stupid to ever think that they were. 

 

~*~

 

“You have a caller, Lady Eichan Wood.” 

It drags Lydia from her tab and she blinks prettily at the blonde woman blowing through the door behind her butler. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, dismissively, and waves a hand at the seat next to her. “Breakfast, Erica?” 

The werewolf pauses, studying her, and then shrugs and sits, snatching up a piece of toast and biting into it gracelessly. “Where the hell is your prince?” 

“Why would I know that?” Lydia asks, leaning back. 

She’s pale and lovely, her hair a cascade of curls, her wrapper hinting at the scandalously unclad body hidden behind pale blue silk, and she’s smiling like she has a secret. 

“Because he’s  _ your _ prince. You know everything about Stiles.” 

“Not since he married your Alpha,” Lydia says, smiling sharply. 

Erica studies her and then, “You know damn well that the marriage will be good for Beacon.” 

Lydia nods, reluctantly. “It doesn’t mean I like how it’s hurting my friend.” 

“Hurting  _ him? _ ” Erica hisses, furiously. “He  _ left _ my Alpha, without a fucking word. Do you--,” she bites off her words, forces herself to sit back and her eyes to go the normal brown. “What do you know about werewolves?” 

“More than I knew before my best friend married one,” Lydia says, and Erica smirks. Maybe she isn’t completely useless. 

“And what do you know about mates?” 

_ That _ gets Lydia’s attention, sharp and intent and Erica thinks that this pale, soft girl would make a terrifying wolf. 

 

~*~

 

The room reeks of sour sweat and misery and she wants to slip out, leave him to his misery in peace--and she wants to curl up against him and promise it’s going to be ok, comfort the hurting packmate. 

She mostly wants to drag Prince Stiles back to his mate by his pretty hair and demand he be everything Derek deserves. 

She’d considered it--but Boyd and Isaac told her she couldn’t, so she was here with Lydia’s words and the coordinates to a house in the mountains, and the cryptic warning--”Don’t fuck this up, Reyes.” 

She hopes that it’s enough. 

Derek is sitting on the floor, curled up against his bed, and there are letters scattered around him, letters with Stiles messy handwriting, well handled and marked with Derek’s scent. 

How many times had he read them, since Stiles left? 

“Derek,” Erica says, softly. 

“Go away, Erica,” he grumbles. 

“You’re scaring us, Alpha,” she says and his red gaze snaps to her. She tilts her head, baring her neck but says, steadily. “You hurt your beta, and you’re ignoring your duties.” 

“My  _ mate _ left,” Derek snarls, furious and desolate and she feels her heart twist. 

Being pack--she can  _ feel _ his hurt. The aching loss of Stiles, the confusion of his wolf missing his mate. 

It’s muted, filtered and watered down, but she can  _ feel _ it and she wonders just how fucking terrible it must be for Derek. 

“I know. But--I found him. I found him for you.” 

 

~*~

 

Stiles stares at the words on the screen and smiles softly. 

It’s harder than he expected, but he likes it. Likes the quiet of his thoughts and the story spilling on the page, the breathless excitement when a character did something completely unexpected. 

He liked seeing the story growing under his fingers, the exhausted ache in his head well worth the work he did every day. 

He glances at his communique chanel but there is nothing there, and he feels a pulse of hurt that he tries to ignore. 

He came here for solitude, because there--in the Palace, with all the attendant noise and distractions--he couldn’t think. Not beyond his title and the cold shunning from Society, not beyond the husband who was increasingly absent, whose letters answered his questions brusquely, and left Stiles anxious for more. 

He doesn’t regret it, precisely. But he  _ is  _ lonely and he misses Derek. 

Stiles shoves away from the desk and stalks downstairs. He prepares his dinner, a simple chicken pasta with cream sauce, the motions smooth and rote, soothing and blanking out his thoughts. 

Lady Melissa taught him to cook. She attempted to teach Scott, to counteract Stiles constant hunger and rousing the kitchen staff, but after Scott set the kitchen on fire twice, Stiles stepped in out of sheer self-preservation. It wasn’t something he did often, or talked about, but he enjoyed it now. 

He wonders, as he pours a glass of wine and carries his dinner to the table in the empty hunting lodge, what Derek would think if he saw him now. 

 

~*~

 

He smells her before he hears her and even hearing her voice, loud and commanding as she barks orders at  _ his  _ pack, doesn’t prompt him to move. 

Derek runs a finger over the letters, impossibly gentle, and tries desperately to understand. 

“Get up,” Laura snaps. 

Derek ignores her. She growls, furiously, and stalks to stand in front of him, hands on her hips as she glares, her eyes glinting red. “You’re better than this.” 

“Go away, Laura,” Derek mutters. 

“You’re pining, and you can’t do that. This is not the complicated love story of a boy in the woods who can’t win the heart of his one true love.” 

“I  _ had _ a one true love,” Derek snaps, stung. “She’s dead, along with my pup.” 

“Then why the hell do you care what some bratty prince does?” she demands, throwing up her hands. 

Because it felt real. Because Paige was his first love, but Stiles was here, alive and interesting and stubborn and lovely. 

Because he wanted to taste Stiles’ moles and track his bright blush down his pale throat. 

“Because he’s my mate,” Derek mumbles, and Laura freezes. 

“Derek,” she breathes. He looks up at her, finally, and she looks regal and commanding, and more shocked than he has ever seen. “He’s your  _ mate?” _

Derek nods, miserably.

“Then what the  _ hell _ are you doing here and not dragging him home?” 

 

~*~

 

He’s been at the hunting lodge for ten days when he hears the knock, jarring him out of his thoughts, and back to the present. 

The knock comes again, insistent, and Stiles grumbles as he stands and stumbles on sleepy feet to the door. 

Derek Hale is standing there, dripping wet, in dirty pants and a torn, wet shirt. His hands are clenched at his side and his eyes are gleaming red, and Stiles--

Stiles stares at him, shocked and so dizzy with relief he almost doesn’t understand that Derek is snarling, low and furious, until he reaches for his husband and Derek snaps at his fingers. 

Stiles freezes and his expression goes hurt and angry, and he crosses his arms, straightening and glaring at Derek. 

“What do you want?” he asks. 

“I  _ want _ ,” Derek grits out through a mouthful of fangs, “to know why the hell my husband  _ left me. _ ” 


	8. In which there is a kiss, an argument, an explanation, and a promise--not necessarily in that order.

Stiles stares at him, his scent going shocky with confusion, quickly overriding the burst of pleasure. Derek can feel the shift and fights it back, because he wants to be human for this, wants to see Stiles and scent him and understand as a man what the wolf doesn’t give a shit about. 

“What are you  _ talking _ about?” Stiles asks, baffled. The wind rattles, blowing in a sheet of rain and Stiles yelps before Derek shifts, shielding him with his already soaked body. 

“Get inside, hell,” Stiles huffs, dragging the werewolf inside by his wrist. He stands there dripping on the hardwood and Stiles huffs. “There’s clothes, upstairs. Dad usually left some of his here and we haven’t cleaned it since the regime change.” 

He flushes and Derek watches it trace down his throat, a pretty red. He’s wearing one of those damnably loose shirts, the collar open and baring his throat, and his fingers are inkstained. He’s barefoot and still wearing loose sleep pants. 

“Go change,” Stiles says, when Derek keeps staring at him. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” 

Derek stares as Stiles turns and walks down the hall, feet quiet on the wood. 

 

~*~

 

His hands are trembling as he slices thick chunks of smoked meat and watches the bread grilling in the pan on the stove. The kettle hums happily and Stiles reaches for it, pouring easily into the cup waiting with tea bags. 

“Sit down, you look exhausted,” he says, as he hears Derek’s footsteps. He doesn’t look at the alpha, not yet--he’s still trying to calm down, to wrap his head around the fact that Derek is here, that he came so furious and determined. 

Derek is quiet, but the telltale creak of the chair tells him that Derek obeyed. Stiles matches his silence, and Derek seems content to just let him finish. Eventually though the tea is steeped and the cheese sandwiches are grilled and there is nothing left to occupy himself with. 

He sets the food down and carefully sits across from Derek and says, quiet and firm, “Eat.” 

Derek does. 

 

~*~

 

He’s just finished his first sandwich and begun his second when Stiles says, “What are you doing here?” 

“What are  _ you _ doing here?” Derek snaps back, stung. Because how  _ dare _ he? How dare he act like the wronged party, like Derek was behaving absurdly. 

“I told you what I was doing!” Stiles snaps. “You didn’t bother to respond but I told you, Derek, so you don’t get to storm in here like some--some-- _ asshole _ \--and demand answers like they aren’t already given!” 

Derek blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Finally, says carefully. “What are you talking about?” 

Stiles stares at him, confused. “The communiques. I promised to send them, and I have.” 

Derek looks pale and a little bashful and Stiles feels sick, suddenly. 

“You--you didn’t know.” 

 

~*~

 

They’re there. 

Ten unopened communiques in the channel he so often forgets, and he feels his heart clench seeing them. Stiles is sitting across from him, pale and heart pounding, reeking of nerves in a way that Derek didn’t like. 

“I didn’t know,” Derek says, his lips dry. “I never check--I thought after you left, and there were no letters--” 

“That I just vanished,” Stiles says and he twists his fingers. “Yeah--I can see why you’d show up pissed.” 

“I shouldn’t have.” 

Stiles snorts. 

“Stiles, I’m  _ sorry. _ ” 

Stiles looks conflicted, hopeful and nervous and angry. 

“Tell me--Stiles, tell me why you’re here.” 

For the first time, Stiles scent goes nervous, sour with anxiety no longer twisted with arousal or anger or confusion. 

“It’s stupid,” he mutters. 

Derek reaches out and Stiles almost jumps when Derek touches his hands. 

“Please?” 

 

~*~  

 

“We did this for the people of Beacon. Because they loved their king and their prince, and wedding the Governor was supposed to stabilize the transition.” 

Derek nods. “It has. I know you aren’t seeing the people, but they’re--it’s not as bad as it was, at first.” 

“No, I know. But Derek--we haven’t been invited to anything since Countess Kira’s party.” 

Derek frowns at him, eyebrows drawn low. “What does that mean?” 

Stiles sighs. “Before the regime change, I had fifty invitations a week, more during holidays and summer. And after, I had twenty--and since we were married, since we made our single appearance in Society, we have received not a single invitation.” He watches Derek, hoping it makes sense, but Derek just stares, a little blank. Stiles sits across from him and says, gently, “We’re being snubbed. Turned out by Society because they don’t approve of their Prince marrying a werewolf.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, his eyes wide and wounded. “I--I never meant for that to happen. I didn’t want you to suffer.” 

“Don’t apologize for them,” Stiles says, sharply. “Society--they’re judgemental asses, so convinced of their own worth and superiority, they’ve become everything they were created to prevent. Being snubbed is--it’s not ideal, but it’s hardly the worst thing to ever happen to me.” 

He reaches for Derek, but shies away at the last moment, hand clenching on his knee. “To either of us.” 

“If--you aren’t upset they’re snubbing us?” Derek asks and Stiles shrugs, lightly. “Then why did you leave?”

And there is so much behind that question, his voice so twisted up and hurt that Stiles has to close his eyes and breathe, for a moment. 

“I’ve always known what I’m supposed to do and be. I’m a Prince of Beacon, a son of Society, and my responsibilities and roles were well defined. I wasn’t allowed to be a soldier, and I wasn’t allowed to be an author, or a historian. I was only allowed to be the Heir and the pretty Society plaything.” 

Derek stares at him and Stiles gives a bitter smile, his lips twisting. “If I am not that anymore--what am I?” he asks, and it feels like he’s asked it before, like he’s asked it a over and over, a mantra that he’s repeating now as much for himself as for Derek. 

Derek wants, desperately, to touch him. He smells alone, and bitter, and alluringly perfect, that scent of cinnamon and lighting twisted up and familiar now--but not quite right, anymore. 

He wants to drag Stiles close and cover him with his own scent and he can’t. 

“That’s what you came here to answer?” he asks and Stiles flushes, splotchy and red and lovely, as he nods. Derek licks his lips. “What did you determine?” 

 

~*~

 

Stiles leaves him alone with a stack of papers and a tab and a murmured goodnight. Points him toward a dusty room untouched by his husband’s scent, and then retires, his scent still filled with nerves and his hands twisting anxiously. Derek fights back the urge to call to him, to ask him to stay. 

Instead, he strips down to his briefs, sets the environmental to cool, and crawls into bed. 

And then he reads. 

He reads until his eyes burn and his cheeks are damp and the sun is beginning to rise.

He thinks, as he falls asleep, finally, the pages and tab of notes still clutched in his hand, that he has fallen a little deeper in love with the strange and mysterious Prince he married. 

 

~*~

 

Derek is not at breakfast, and by lunch, Stiles is so anxious he’s bitten his nails to the quick. Lydia has ignored every communique he’s sent, Scott is in the mountains with his newest lady and not expecting Stiles for another week, and his father laughed when he called and promptly hung up. 

He is, all in all, thoroughly annoyed with all of them, and desperate to hear what Derek thinks. 

But since his husband seems in no hurry to wake, he takes himself to the tiny kitchen and hunts until he finds a familiar, dusty book. It’s old, paper brittle and stained and his fingers are gentle as he turns the pages, looking for the--

He smiles as the book settles on the recipe, oatmeal chocolate chip, and makes a happy little hum. It’s been years--over a decade--since he stood in this little kitchen with his mother and helped her bake. It was the only place they baked, the only place she was not the queen--only his mother. 

It was the place they felt most like a family, simple and ordinary and untouched by expectation and Society. He loved that, the peace of it, the way she smiled and his father dozed on the porch, his feet bare and a glass of scotch untouched by his elbow. 

He misses it, sometimes. It’s why, when he wanted a place to retreat, a refuge to  _ think, _ he hadn’t hesitated--he’d run to the mountain cabin that had been home in ways the palace never could be. 

He’s just dropping balls of dough on a battered silver sheet when he feels the air shift and he glances up to see Derek, sleep tousled and soft, in the doorway to the kitchen. 

Stiles pops the cookies into the oven and then points his husband to a seat. “There’s coffee--I prefer it, in the mornings, or when I’m alone. But I can make you tea,” he offers and Derek shakes his head, frowning. 

“You never drink coffee at the Palace.” 

Stiles pauses, and then carefully sets the thin glass cup on the counter. 

“I am expected to be a Society Prince at the Palace.” 

“Even over a private breakfast?” Derek asks, and it should be scathing but it’s--not. It’s sad, and hopeful, and shy. 

And he wants to reach out, touch Derek, sooth away the touch of hurt he hears in the other man’s voice. Instead he says, carefully, “I am the Alpha’s mate--even at breakfast, there are expectations.” 

Derek blinks at him, once. 

And then again. 

“Stiles,” he says, “I think we need to talk about what your research on Pack is saying. They’re--it’s not like Society. Pack is  _ family.  _ It’s not a performance or expectation, it’s just--it’s being together.” 

Stiles bites his lip. “But your pack doesn’t want me,” he says, and Derek straightens, his eyes flickering red briefly. 

“Why do you think that?” 

Stiles huffs, and turns as the oven dings, pulling the cookies out and shoving another tray in, before he pokes at them, grumpily. 

 

~*~

 

Derek is quiet, patient, waiting until Stiles finally huffs and spins, dropping back into his chair. “They don’t speak to me--they do, but not like they do with each other. They don’t come to me unless they need something or need to relay a message from you. It’s like--I’m there, and they’re there, and we aren’t connected, we’re just--coexisting. Like I coexisted with my father’s staff, when he was still King. They didn’t want me, I was just a necessary evil.” 

Derek is quiet for a long time before he says, quietly. “You don’t act like pack. You spend your time with Lord Scott and Lady Lydia, and they’re covered in your scent, but you keep your distance from me and the betas. They don’t hear us--werewolves have superior hearing to humans, and even when we don’t concentrate, there is something soothing about hearing the noise of your alpha and alpha’s mate talking. And--” he hesitates, flushing, thinking about the morning Derek had lingered over a badly cooked breakfast, while the pack sat scattered around. About how Stiles had pushed into the room with Scott on his heels, chewing happily on a burnt piece of toast. He had made his excuses when Derek shyly offered breakfast and left without another word and the pack--

The pack fled while Derek sat there, hurt and confused and lonely. 

“What?” Stiles asks, his voice shaky and his eyes bright. 

“You rejected my courting gift,” Derek mutters glaring into his coffee. 

Stiles is staring at him, his mouth open and Derek almost stops, almost stands and walks away, but something in Stiles scent makes him hesitate. 

And then Stiles is shoving up and moving around the table, tripping in his haste, before he pauses, a hair’s breadth away. 

“Derek,” he whispers, hand hovering over Derek’s shoulder, “Derek, may I touch you?” 

A whine slips free, and he shivers as he nods, and then Stiles is spilling into him. 

The kiss is white hot and dry fire, igniting every nerve in his body, making him jerk and his arms slip around Stiles’ waist, steadying him where he’s perched sideways on Derek’s lap, drawing him closer and whimpering under the chaste kiss, the one his husband tips onto the corner of his lips and down his jaw, nipping light at his throat, and  _ marking _ him. 

Derek wants to howl, wants to drag Stiles to bed and strip him, cover him in scent and come and kisses, until their scents are so intertwined he can’t smell either of them separately ever again. 

Instead--he takes the gentle chaste kisses and his husband’s soft touches, hands delicate on his neck, fingers soothing on his ears and pressing into his hair. 

“I didn’t mean to. I--I wouldn’t, not if I knew,” Stiles murmurs. “If I knew, I would never turn away your courting gift.” 

Derek stares at him and sees the truth shining in his beautiful eyes and lets himself, finally, begin to hope. 


	9. In which there are gifts, a revelation, and risque party behavior.

[ ](https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eV6GXMQijM8/W0VQLr92F7I/AAAAAAAADno/nrCfW6lsWvA60FhxxByEm4q79FMXdXn9QCLcBGAs/s1600/tumblr_pbo3zdebhe1rzrh0no2_1280%2B%25281%2529.png)

They spend another night in the mountain cabin. The evening is spent over light conversation and a dinner that Stiles prepares for them, before Derek escorts him to his door. Leaves him there, blushing and confused, with a kiss on the cheek and a finger trailed over the side of his throat.

Then Derek had blushed, the tips of his ears adorably red, and murmured something before almost running away.

It had confused Stiles, but he decided it was best to ask--they had had enough assumptions and miscommunications to last them both a lifetime.

He does, before he retires to his bed, take a moment to send Lydia a communique with a very specific request.

 

~*~

 

The return to the palace is--strange. It feels, somewhat, like stepping back in time, to when they were first wed and he was uncertain of his own feelings and Stiles.

But Stiles is warm at his side, a long lithe line of pressure against his body in the swaying carriage, and he smells distractingly good--cinnamon and ozone overlaid with pinesap and snow.

It’s _their_ scent, not touched yet by the musk of sex and come, but still _there._

His betas scent it, as soon as Stiles alights from the carriage, their gazes snagging on Stiles bare hand in Derek’s and he waits, unsure what they will do--and what Stiles will do.

It’s Erica who steps forward, heels clacking ominously under her straight, practical skirt. “Deaton has some reports for you to look over, Alpha. He was quite...insistent.”

Derek throws an anxious glance at Stiles who smiles a little. “Go--I will unpack and settle myself. Scott I’m sure will need reassurance that I am still whole and healthy.” He makes a face and then smiles. “Will you join me for dinner?

Derek nods, and then ducks quickly to kiss Stiles’ hand, a flush in his cheeks and ears as he spins and strides off, barking for Boyd and Jackson.

And trying, desperately, not to think of the man he’s walking away from and the way things have changed.

 

~*~

 

Erica and Isaac are quiet as they escort Stiles back to the Green Room, something unnecessary, but he’s grateful for. He wants to reach out, touch them, let them know that he didn’t mean to hold himself apart. But he doesn’t know _how_.

In Society, he knows how to apologize, the intricate dance that gave ground without conceding everything, that maintained pride and position while acknowledging the hurt in the other party. He’d never been _good_ at it, and Lydia had crafted most of his apologies--but he’d been a prince and a diplomat and it was something he was born to.

Werewolves--they were different. With every passing day he was realizing _how_ different.

And it’s that difference that has him blurting out, as they reach his rooms, “I’m sorry. I--I don’t know what werewolf customs are, or what you expected from the Alpha’s mate, and I fucked it all up. I might still be fucking it up. But I’m sorry. I want to do better--if you will let me.”

They stare at him, Isaac wide-eyed and hopeful, Erica still and suspicious.

“You smell like him,” Isaac says, shyly.

Stiles nods, and tilts his chin, just a little. Isaac whimpers at the invitation, and Erica snarls, making Stiles stumble back a step. She blinks and then huffs. “You, Highness, are a fucking mess. Here,” she tilts her head forward, a little, and brushes his fingers against the nape of her neck. “You are the Alpha’s mate. You don’t offer your throat to anyone but Derek--not pack, not a rival alpha, not anyone. If you want to scent mark us, or carry our scent--it’s like this, see?”

Stiles nods and bites his lip as he dips his head forward, and Isaac reaches for him eagerly, brushing light across his skin.

Erica huffs but does the same. “There’s a book, on your desk. Your Lady Lydia requested it be sent to you.”

Stiles flushes red at the wicked smile Erica sends him, before she pushes Isaac from the room and closes it behind her.

 

~*~

 

_Prince Stiles,_

_We talked about expectations, in the mountain cabin. I have struggled with this change in my life. I never wanted to be an alpha--I was content to be my sister’s beta, and live a simple life in the forest with my wife._

_But the war changed everything, made me kill, and sometimes I wonder if that was the right choice._

_If I should have let myself be killed, instead._

_But I think, too, of you--and how your life has changed, and you have accepted it, thrived under it._

_You have every reason to hate me, to turn me away--our arrangement included nothing but necessity._

_And yet, you try. And it give me courage, to do the same._

_Thank you, my husband._

_Ever yours,_

_Derek~_

 

_Derek,_

_I think courage, is doing what you know you should, when you don’t have to and it terrifies you._

_I know that being our Governor is hard, and you still do it--you’re still out there, in the fields of Beacon, helping in the storehouses._

_You still care._

_I know Society thinks we’re abhorrent, and that I should hate you--but I watch you with our people and your pack, and I see the way you glance at me, when you think I don’t notice--you are not as sneaky as you think, husband mine._

_And I think--they’re abhorrent. They’re the ones who have forgotten what Society is meant for._

_I hate the war, and everything it did, I hate what it took from you and from me._

_But I think that maybe the war is what Society needs to change._

_Your own,_

 

_Stiles,_

_Will you join me for a private dinner? I will be late, a meeting in Jasper Hills, but I would like to hear about the chapters you’ve finished--Erica was talking about them and I found myself jealous that I have not heard this first._

_And ashamed, that I have been so inattentive._

_Join me?_

_Ever yours,_

_Derek~_

 

_Der,_

_Thank you, for the evening in Beacon. I didn’t realize i missed it--and I quite liked showing it to you, all the places I know so well._

_I found the chocolates you left in my bed. I wish you had stayed, and shared them with me._

_Your own,_

 

_~*~_

 

The invitation comes nearly a month after they return from the mountain cabin. Stiles is still lingering over his coffee, alone at the table--Derek and the pack scattered quickly after they ate, Derek pausing to scent mark him and press a chaste kiss to his forehead before he slipped away to his own concerns.

The invitation is simple, a heavy card with embossed lettering, a simple engagement party of Lady Heather to Lord Greenberg.

Under any other circumstances he would ignore it. Greenberg annoys him on the best of days, and walking into a Society party with Derek will not be the best of days.

Still--they are being pushed aside enough--no need to help the snubbing along.

 

~*~

 

“Are you sure about this?” Derek asks, and glances at Stiles.

He’s wearing a black suit, trim and fitted, the tails long and distracting. His neck is hidden in a ruffle of a high collar, and it makes Derek’s teeth itch to drop, to rip aside the frothy cloth and _bite._

“Yes,” Stiles says, fondly exasperated. He smiles at the Alpha. “We can’t ignore Society forever, Der.”

He huffs. “We _could.”_

“Behave,” Stiles scolds, and he smirks, catching his husband’s bare hand and squeezing it lightly in his own.

“Derek,” Stiles says, almost shyly. The townhouse appears at the end of the road, brilliantly lit. “You’ve courted me--the gift of food, the gift of protection, the gift of knowledge. I have proof of vitality and your gift of the heart.”

Stiles pauses and Derek stares at him, his heart pounding in his throat.

“You haven’t made the last gifts.”

“You--I want you to be sure,” Derek says, watching Stiles.

Stiles licks his lips and the carriage clatters to a stop. “I’m sure,” he whispers, like a promise, and Derek flushes as the younger man slips out of the carriage.

 

~*~

 

His hands are trembling as Derek alights and offers his arm.

Werewolf courting, Lydia’s little book informed him, was a series of gifts and interactions between the romantic couple and their packs.

He’d been a little baffled about that--unsure what pack he had to offer, before Lydia dismissed that. “Erica adores me. He’ll love your pack.”

And he’d let it go, focused on the gifts--seven in all.

The first gift--a gift of food--had come in the form of a badly made breakfast and, later, a box of gourmet chocolates Stiles had found in his bed.

The gift of protection was a runed dagger, made in a fire of wolfsbane with a hilt of rowan, and a pistol, lovely, a small pale silver thing, that Stiles had fired with expert precision.

The gift of knowledge was trunk of books, delivered by Derek’s smiling uncle, filled with lore and legend and pack history. Stiles had pressed Derek into the door of his chambers and kissed him deep and rough, until he felt the long line of Derek’s cock against his own, and then he stumbled away, back to his books.

There was tradition to observe, after all.

The proof of vitality and gift of the heart was the one time Stiles faltered.

It was disconcerting to see his husband, naked and coated in blood, dragging a buck behind him and up the stairs of the palace.

It was even more disconcerting when Derek cut out its heart and presented it to Stiles, still warm in his hands.

Derek had watched him, eyes bright and hopeful, and Stiles had forced down the gag as he took a bite of the warm heart--proof that Derek was strong enough to provide, and a symbolic gift of his heart into Stiles safekeeping.

And then they stopped.

Two gifts from the end--and they stopped.

He watches Derek as he moves through the party. He remembers Countess Kira’s house party, the way Derek had stood stiff and still, relaxing only when Kira or Stiles was nearby.

Now, Derek glides through the party almost like the predator he is, a smile that is bright and false fixed on his lips, and he makes a bubble of space for himself by sheer arrogant will and belligerence. But he presses close to Stiles, a comforting line of pressure when Derek spoke to the magistrate. He had an arm around Stiles waist, fingers brushing absently, while he spoke to the priests.

He had let one finger slip under the waistband of Stiles pants, brushing into the cleft of Stiles’ ass, while he spoke to a visiting Governor.

He never quit touching Stiles, little, easily hidden touches, things that were driving him mad and making him shake, and then Derek pulled him gently onto the swaying dance floor.

The Alpha never looked away while they dance, not even when he spun away with other partners--his pale searching gaze held steady on Stiles.

Then they were twirling together and Derek’s hands were gripping, possessive, his mouth heavy and open near his throat as he murmurs, low enough only Stiles can hear, “I want you. I want to strip you out of that fine suit and spread you on my bed, fuck you open with my fingers until you come, and then fuck you until you are begging to come again, shoving back on my dick to take what I am slow to give you.”

Stiles’ face flames as he spins away and he’s aware of the looks he’s getting, curious and concerned, but he’s mostly just gasping, trying very hard not to come in his suit at a party of the peerage.

The dancers circle back and Derek’s gaze is predatory before he slides behind Stiles, his hand light on his back as he leads Stiles through the turns and dips effortlessly.

“You’d like it, being fucked open on my cock, until I could knot you properly. You’d beg to come and when I finally let you--you’d come so pretty for me, sweetheart. Let everyone know you’re mine.”

Stiles shudders and misses a step and Derek’s grip tightens, guiding him along.

“You want to come, don’t you. Just _thinking_ about me gets you off, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

Stiles whines into Derek’s throat, turning, the damn dance forgotten and Derek hums, slipping an arm around his waist and leading him away, away from the party and the dancers, away from all of Society’s prying eyes, into a quiet room in the private residence.

There, he presses Stiles into the dark curtains and the moon gleams down through the lead glass, pale and silvery against Stiles’ skin.

“What are you doing?” Stiles gasps, and Derek laughs, a moment before he kisses Stiles.

It’s hard and sweet and full of promises and sex and intent. Stiles moans into it as Derek’s nimble fingers fumble open his suit pants, and draws him into the air of the room. Stiles groans as Derek strokes him off, rough quick jacking that makes him shudder and writhe against the curtains and Derek murmurs, “I will give you this. Every day, for the rest of our lives, I will give you this and anything else you want.”

It’s soft and serious, heavy with weight, like a vow, and Stiles shouts as he comes but Derek covers his mouth in a silencing kiss, covers his cock as he comes in Derek’s cupped palm, and then he holds him there, gasping, hard in his pants as he licks Stiles’ come off his hand.

Stiles watches, dizzy and sated and happy, and his dick gives a feeble twitch when Derek asks, “Do you accept my gift of intent?”

Stiles nods, come stupid and sleepy and Derek--Derek smiles, bright and shy and pleased.

 


	10. A courtship continues and Argents come to call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief but graphic remembering of a mutilated body. Please be careful when Derek is thinking of the past.

In the days after the engagement party, Stiles found two things to be inexplicably true. Society was fickle and easily tugged by their own peers and with their recent attendance at a Society party, the invitations are suddenly flooding into the palace again. 

Enough so that Deaton’s face takes on a pinched look and Derek gives the stack of invitation next to Stiles at dinner a wide-eyed stare. 

The second, and more important, truth was that Derek confused and delighted him. 

 

~*~

 

“He won’t touch me,” Stiles grumbles. 

“He touches you all the time,” Scott points out patiently. “They all do.” 

Stiles scowls. “That’s different. That’s pack stuff. He won’t  _ touch _ me.” 

“Dude,” Scott says, pained, and Stiles gives him a dirty look. “Maybe you should, uh. Talk to him?” 

“I can’t,” Stiles grumbles. “The damn gift has been given. I have to wait for the next one.” 

Scott is quiet, watching as Stiles feeds Roscoe another bite of carrot. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” 

Stiles shrugs. “Happier than I expected. He’s--this isn’t what either of us wanted, but he’s doing the best to make it work, and there are worse people I could tie my life to.” 

“It’s not that,” Scott says. “You  _ like _ him. You aren’t just making do with a bad situation--you actually are  _ happy. _ ” 

“I never fit in Society, Scott. I was born to it and I wasn’t good at it--I only managed because Lydia did most of the heavy lifting and I was the prince and no one was interested in starting a war over a stupid kid. But--the werewolves aren’t like that. They have their rules and their formalities, but--it’s direct and honest the way Society can’t be.” 

“It doesn’t bother you, that they’re animals?” 

Stiles stiffens, and looks at Scott. He’s staring, his expression baffled and open, earnest and it stings because Stiles  _ knows _ he doesn’t mean for it to be insulting. 

“They’re not. They’re just--they’re people, Scott. And they’re different from us, but so is Kira and Lydia, and we don’t push them aside because of it. They’re  _ people _ . And that doesn’t bother me at all.” 

 

~*~

 

Stiles is quiet, at dinner. Derek listens to his betas talk, their bickering soft and soothing as he watches Stiles out of the corner of his eye. 

It’s strange for him to be silent, and Derek waits only until they’re alone in the library before he turns to Stiles, and says, “Are you alright? You’re...quiet.” 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, and his heart trips, uneven, just a moment before he smiles. “No. I’m not. Scott said something, stupid and thoughtless and it bothers me.” 

Derek sits on the couch near Stiles and waits. 

“Does it bother you, the way Society views you?” 

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

“Yes,” he says, honestly. “I’m not an animal. None of us are. We’re bound to the moon and we’re different because of it, but we’re still people. But--we are  _ different.  _ Our customs, the way our social order is set up. Even something as simple as mates--it’s different.” Derek glances away. “I don’t begrudge Society, and even the common people, the way they view werewolves. If there is anything the Great War taught us, it’s that we fear that which is different from us.” 

“Is that why werewolves hid for so much of history?” Stiles asks curiously and Derek nods. “Then why did you stop?” 

He shrugs. “Because everyone wants to stop hiding, after a while. There is something freeing about living freely as you are, not shoving an essential piece of yourself into hiding because the world wouldn’t accept it.” 

Stiles watches him and Derek leans in, brushing a kiss against his bare throat. “You won’t change the world, my husband. You can’t. We just have to learn to live with the world we’re given.”  

 

~*~

 

It’s not, Derek thinks to himself, that he  _ dislikes _ Lady Lydia. 

He doesn’t. He thinks she’s lovely, albeit sharp and controlling in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of Laura. There is something about her that makes him want to roll over and present his belly and the alpha in him  _ hates _ that, hates the very idea of it. 

Finding her at their dining table once again sets an already bad tempered alpha even further on edge. She watches him, amused, as Derek brushes a kiss over Stiles forehead, nuzzling into the bare neck he tips back for Derek’s lips. 

Only then, when that distracting flush is staining Stiles’ cheeks, does Derek turn and greet Lydia. 

“Lady Lydia, how lovely to see you again,” he says, a smile frozen on his face.

“I do so love that you’re close enough to call on,” Lydia says, sweetly, and Stiles snorts. Derek’s gaze darts to him. 

“Behave, Lydia,” Stiles says lightly. His gaze darts to Derek. “She came with an invitation from Count of Gevaudan.” 

Derek frowns. He’s heard of the Count, a young man recently inherited his title and looking to make his debut in Society. 

“You’ll come, of course,” Lydia says, her tone teasing and pleading and Stiles laughs, but there’s something hopeful in his eyes as he looks at Derek. 

Her eyes are laughing and calculating when Derek nods, “Of course, husband.” 

The truly brilliant smile Stiles gives him almost makes that knowing smirk bearable. 

 

~*~

 

_ Husband,  _

_ I dreamt of you, last night.  _

_ I dreamt of you kisses and your promises and the feel of your body against my own. I woke, aching for you, and I write this, aching still. I know that there is a dance to these things, and that I am to be patient.  _

_ I am trying, dear one. But then there are nights, like tonight, when the moon is full and I see you running with your wolves through the grounds and you are so unspeakably beautiful--I want so much to be with you.  _

_ I am being patient, Der. But I dream of you and I hope soon, you will be there when I wake, aching and hard for you in the dark.  _

_ Your own,  _

_ Stiles.  _

 

_ Sweetheart,  _

_ You are a menace, and I adore you.  _

_ Soon. Soon, I will be there when you wake.  _

_ Yours,  _

 

~*~

 

He stares at the tiny box. He wants to give it to Stiles, but the time has never been quite  _ right. _

Laura told him he was being ridiculous--they were married and courting was outdated. 

He didn’t court Paige. They married and he bed her within a month of that first meeting, and within a year, she was swelling with their first child. 

And then she was dead and their child with her. 

He closes his eyes. The ring isn’t the same as the one he slid on Paige’s finger--that one still dangles on a thin chain around his neck, and Stiles has never asked about it, but when his hand closes in Derek’s shirt and gathers the ring in his fingers, Derek feels  _ wrong _ . Like he is hurting his husband with the token of his dead wife. 

This though--this final gift. 

Peter had brought it to him, and his uncle’s eyes were bright and sad behind his scars when he slid it into Derek’s hand. “She would be happy you found someone worthy of this,” he’d murmurmed and it was as close to a blessing as he was likely to get from any in his family. 

He tucks the small ring box into his pocket and slips from his room. 

Stiles is waiting in the foyer, Erica sitting near him. Her skirt stirs as she kicks idly and Derek surveys them. 

It’s the first time they’ll be going into Society with his pack, and he’s not worried, exactly--but there is a current of anxiety running through him. 

“The ladies did a good job,” he tells Stiles, watching his pack. Jackson, Isaac, and Boyd wear dark tailored suits, white shirts with low collars. Erica is wearing a black gown, with a blue corset and tight black leather jacket that does nothing but accent her low neckline and revealed ample decolletage. Her hair is curling and secured at the back of her head. 

Stiles smirks, “I’m sure Kira and Lydia will be pleased to hear you approve.” 

Derek growls, just a little, and Stiles laughs as he takes Derek’s arm and leads him to the waiting horseless carriage. 

 

~*~

 

The party is in full swing when it happens. 

They’ve mingled, and despite the stares and whispers, the pack has been more welcomed than not. Stiles is flush and a little tipsy, moving between his father and Lady Melissa, and Derek. The one time Derek smirks and suggests they dance, Stiles flushes and his scent goes so hot with arousal Derek almost drags him from the room to ravage him. 

Erica’s grip on his arm and Lady Lydia’s steely gaze kept him in place, but he didn’t suggest another dance. 

He is standing with King John as Stiles dances with Kira, when it happens and at first, he only notices because the pack bond he shares with Isaac goes bright and shrill and sour all at once, snapping Derek’s head up, his attention narrowing in on his first beta, the one who is still the most vulnerable.

He sees the younger woman first, a fair, dark haired girl in a silver gown, her curls pulled into a elaborate knot on her head, leaving supple shoulders and strong arms bare. Gloves fit her fingers, lace where there should be leather, and a simple crest dangling at her throat. 

He sees Kate a heartbeat later, stalking at her niece’s side. She’s still lovely, in a red dress that clings too much, and loose flowing blonde hair, a smirk on her painted lips. 

“Easy,” John says, his voice a low command and it steadies Derek as they come closer. 

Why the  _ hell _ is she here? 

“Your Majesty, I am so glad to see you. I didn’t think we would have the pleasure, while in Beacon.” 

“Baroness. I wasn’t aware you were  _ in _ Beacon,” John says, kissing Allison’s hand. “I was unaware the Argent estates had recovered enough to allow you to travel.” 

Allison smiles. “Mother is handling everything--I was called by the Alpha Council, and couldn’t very well ignore their summons.” 

She laughs, a light teasing noise that grates on his nerves. 

“Pardon my manners,” John says abruptly, “Allow me to introduce Governor Hale, the resident Alpha and my recent son in law.” 

Allison’s gaze is chilly as it sweeps to him, but Derek is barely aware of it. 

Kate is smiling at him, her eyes predatory and furious. “Oh, no need to introduce him. Derek,” she purrs, and John stiffens at his side. “I’ve missed you, lover.” 

Stiles, approaching, his eyes wide and worried, freezes, and the noise he makes--

Derek flinches under that noise, so tight and hurt and disbelieving. 

Kate’s eyes are cruel and laughing. 

 

~*~

 

The pack leaves. 

John keeps his son close, and watches the Baroness and her aunt as Stiles watches his husband’s retreat. 

Because there is no other word for it, nothing else that can describe the hurt in Derek’s eyes, or the fury in his pack as they surrounded him and herded the alpha away. 

“I didn’t realize Society in Beacon allowed the mutts to mingle with them,” Kate Argent says, and Stiles straightens. 

Because her words are echoing in his head, and he wants to smack the smirk off her face, and he is bound by Society and etiquette, his father’s hand tight on his elbow. 

But he is a Prince, and born to Society and he smiles. “Better a mongrel than a murderer,” he says sweetly, flicking a disdainful glance over her before turning. “Father--” 

“Go. I’ll be by the Palace tomorrow.” 

Stiles bows and kisses Lady Melissa’s hand before he turns to leave, Scott flowing to his side like water. 

The palace is quiet when he arrives, and he doesn’t let himself think about it, about why he shouldn’t--he just moves through the dark halls until he reaches Derek’s suite. 

“You can’t hurt him.” 

The voice startles Stiles, and he almost trips, twisting to see Jackson sitting in the shadows, feet drawn up, head tipped back. 

“He’s been hurt enough. And now she’s back and she’s really good at fucking up everything. He cares about you--you can’t hurt him.” 

Stiles stares at the werewolf and he thinks Jackson probably wants it to come across as threatening--not as a desperate plea. 

But Jackson’s eyes are begging and his whole body is slumped and defeated, and Stiles can’t help but lick his lips and nod. “I won’t.” 

Jackson’s eyes close in almost relief, and Stiles opens the door, stepping into Derek’s dark rooms. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says. 

“And you shouldn’t be alone.” 

He huffs. “You don’t even know what happened.” 

Stiles doesn’t. There are the stories--Derek was a war hero for the werewolves, and Kate Argent led the Argent armies, with a slew of weapons that could leave the werewolves whimpering and easily killed. 

She was brilliant and, some said, cruel. Some said mad. Some said she was a savior. 

But the same people said that Derek was cruel and savage and kind. 

The truth, Stiles thinks, lies somewhere in between. 

“Tell me,” Stiles says simply. 

 

~*~

 

The war had raged two years. Two years of dying wolves and burning villages and dead bodies and the stench of decay on the air. 

Two years since Deucalion went mad in the remains of his slaughtered village and pack, and dragged Ennis and Kali and their pack to the Argent fortress. 

It had been less than a year since Derek stumbled through the woods and found his home burning, Paige staring sightless at the sky, her body stripped bare and pregnant belly etched with the words  _ dog fucker.  _

The tide of the war was turning, away from the Argents and their wolfsbane weapons to the inexorable press of the packs. The common people who made up so much of the fighting forces were left for dead and rescued by alphas desperate for pack and as they rose, eyes flashing and strong, the opinion of the werewolves changed with them. 

They were winning. 

He remembers that he was drunk, the night he met her a beautiful blonde with drugging kisses and wandering hands, a woman who didn’t remind him of Paige, who took him to his bed in a haze he can’t always remember and rode him until he was shifting. 

He remembers the sharp smile she gave when he was falling asleep, and the promise, “We’re going to have so much fun, lover.” 

He woke in her dungeon, wrapped in chains and bound by mountain ash. He was there for months--Kate tortured him and when he was too beaten to fight back, rode him, her body a wet clench around his cock that was worse than any blade she sunk into him. 

She told him they were losing. That the werewolves were defeated. That his family was dead. 

That it was his fault Paige was dead. 

That his pack had forgotten him. 

She told him he was nothing more than her dog. 

And when he finally broke, when he quit fighting--she slipped a collar around his throat, kissed him prettily, and dragged him behind her stallion into battle. 

The Hales--his brothers and sister--went feral at the sight of Derek bound and on his knees. Kate laughed as she gutted Andrew, leaving Derek kneeling in his blood and shoving his guts back into his brother’s stomach as he gasped for breath that wouldn’t come and Laura chased the Argent bitch. 

They never caught her. 

But the damage was done--a Hale was dead and Derek was broken and it should have been the end of it. 

Talia was the arrowhead of the werewolf armies, the implacable leader that never allowed any of them to falter and seeing one son dead and the other hollowed out, it should have destroyed her. 

“Why didn’t it?” 

“Because it was Mom,” Derek says. “She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met--and she didn’t break. I told her everything I knew about Kate and her defenses, and she used it to rally the last battle.” Derek’s face does something complicated and angry. “Not that it matters--I had already done enough damage.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I got my brother killed,” Derek says, simply. “I almost got us all killed. Because I was tired and  _ lonely.”  _

“Did you know that it was Kate Argent in that bar?” 

Derek scowls. “No, of course not.” 

“Then how is that your fault? You did what soldiers the world over have done. And she used you. She  _ hurt _ you. That’s not your fault, Der.” 

He stares at Stiles, eyes big and disbelieving and Stiles shifts, kneeling in front of him and says again, his voice gentle. “It’s not your fault, Derek.” 

Derek makes a choked noise and crumples into Stiles, and Stiles holds him as he silently shakes. 


	11. In which boundaries come down and feelings are acknowledged.

He wakes up in a familiar bed and for a moment it feels like he’s still dreaming. 

He’s had this dream--where he wakes and Stiles is pressed warm and pliant against him, his breath a warm puff against Derek’s throat, the spicy scent of him mixing with Derek’s. 

Derek’s arms tighten around his mate, and he remembers suddenly the night before, Stiles holding him while he sobbed, before stripping them both of their suits before he pushed and prodded at Derek, forcing him into bed. 

He remembers too, the way he’d grasped Stiles’ hand when he started to leave, the way Stiles’ eyes had widened and softened when Derek whispered, “Please stay.” 

He had stayed. Slipped into Derek’s bed and held him until the rapid comforting heartbeat lulled Derek to sleep. 

He’d slept sound, safe, and secure with his mate holding him tight. 

It’s not the next step. The next step is the gift of love, and Stiles’ gift of acceptance. 

He shouldn’t be here, not yet. 

And yet--Stiles squirms closer, a little huff of indignation slipping free as he snuggles into Derek, and he smiles. 

And yet, this is so right, so perfectly where they should be, that he can’t help but tighten his arms and drag Stiles a little closer, rutting against the softness of his belly and the hardness between his legs. 

Stiles makes a noise, quiet wordless pleasure, and Derek tips his head up, thumbs brushing the soft skin under his jaw, the skin that Stiles only ever bared for him, and kisses him, gently. 

He feels the moment Stiles wakes up, the tiny inhale and the way his hands tighten in the werewolf’s shirt, nails scratching Derek’s chest and dragging a whine from him as Stiles opens his mouth in a shy invitation. 

Derek rolls, pinning Stiles under him as they kiss, licking into Stiles mouth with a hungry noise that Stiles echoes back, shocked and needy, his hips bucking deliciously. 

When Derek finally breaks away, it’s to nip and suck at the pale throat Stiles presents for him, humming and growling as his teeth go sharp and long. 

“Is this what mornings will always be like?” Stiles gasps, and Derek deliberately grinds against him, rutting hard as Stiles jerks and shouts, his eyes closing and the scent of arousal soaking the room. 

“Not always,” Derek murmurs, his voice husky with promise, before he kisses Stiles again, deep and hungry, putting every bit of want into it, everything he doesn’t have the words to say. 

From the way Stiles arches into him, eager and hungry, he thinks that maybe Stiles understands what he can’t say. 

 

~*~

 

Isaac is the only beta at breakfast by the time Stiles and Derek come into the room, a goofy smile on Stiles’ lips. 

“Erica went to the Council,” Isaac says. “Boyd and Jackson are patrolling.” 

It’s a rude but necessary reminder that there is a threat in their territory, and Stiles lowers his coffee, giving Derek a distressed look. 

“The Baroness has every right to be in Beacon,” Derek says. “But watching Kate is only good sense.” 

“Why wasn’t she arrested? After the war?” 

Derek’s lips tightened. “Her brother Christopher helped end things. He aided in defeating the old Baron. But in exchange, his daughter was granted the family title and lands and Kate was given clemency.” 

Stiles scowls, but doesn’t say anything. When Derek rises to leave, he hesitates a moment, looking down at Stiles who gives him a bright smile that doesn’t feel real. “I’ll be back early, tonight. Would you join me for dinner?” 

Stiles nods. “Of course.” 

Derek smiles, a tiny thing before he dips and kisses his husband briefly, and Stiles grips his hand as he straightens. “Be safe, today.” 

He nods, and Stiles reluctantly releases him. 

 

~*~

 

“The King wanted to see you,” Isaac says, when they’re outside and away from Stiles. Derek slides a look at his beta, but nods. 

“We should hurry then. We have an appointment with the magistrate in an hour.” 

They ride in silence, tension humming around them. He knows his beta is nervous with Kate in town. He can’t blame the boy--he’s anxious as well, won’t truly settle until Kate is gone. 

John is waiting for them when the majordomo announces them, his face hard, lines drawn around his mouth, and Derek thinks--he would have liked this man. In another life, one where they are not so clearly aligned against each other. He could have liked and trusted this man, looked to him for advice, and in exasperation when Stiles was difficult. 

He wonders if that is still possible, despite the reasons it shouldn’t be. Despite having replaced him, in his son’s life, in his home, in his authority.

“I didn’t know they were coming,” John says, without preamble. “The Argents have stayed close to their lands, since the war ended.” 

Derek nods. “I know. We’ve already sent word to Sir Christopher. She’s bound to their lands--the Council has every right to arrest her.” 

“It would cause her supporters to rally,” John says, sighing. “And as much as I loathe Kate--she has supporters. There are many still angry with the new world order.” 

Derek frowns, and John says softly. “We aren’t among them. But I am asking you, as your father in law, as the man who will comfort a broken hearted son if you are hurt in another war--be careful. She wants you to lash out.” 

“If I don’t--she will,” Derek says. 

“Not if Society draws her away. Even Kate Argent is bound by something, and if she wants to be held in regard by Society, she can’t ignore it,” John says, smiling sharply, and he sees Stiles in that smile, brilliant and devious. “And I believe Lady Braeden has brought news from Countess Kira’s mother. It seems Kate and the Baroness are being called to Tokyo.” 

Derek’s shoulders ease, just a little, and Isaac asks, “How soon?” 

“Within the week,” John gives Derek an apologetic look. “It’s the best I could do. Sir Christopher is on his way, and will be here by nightfall, to control her as best he can.” 

Derek licks his lips. It’s not perfect. It’s hell, actually, seeing her--but. He feels like maybe he isn’t walking through hell alone. 

“Why are you helping me? You don’t stand to gain anything by helping me.” 

John pauses, and studies him. “It’s not about what I gain or lose, son. It’s about what’s  _ right. _ And what Kate Argent did the to Hales? Wasn’t right.” 

 

~*~

 

_ Husband,  _

_ I like being in your arms when I wake.  _

_ Yours,  _

 

_ Husband,  _

_ Next time, we should be wearing less clothes.  _

_ Yours,  _

 

_ Husband,  _

_ Can next time be tonight?  _

_ Yours,  _

 

_ Husband,  _

_ When I say we should wear less clothes, I mean we should be naked and you should fuck me.  _

_ Lady Melissa would be appalled at my manners but werewolves are blunt and I quite like that.  _

_ And you.  _

_ I like you.  _

_ Yours,  _

 

_ Sweetheart,  _

_ Yes. We can wear less clothes, next time.  _

_ Remember when I said patience? That is still something I’d like from you.  _

_ I want to wake up every morning with you naked in my arms and smelling of sex, the way you did this morning. I want to fuck you so deep and so often you are never free of my scent, and when you touch the bruises on your hips, you smile remembering me.  _

_ I want to know what your kiss tastes like, and your cock, and the way you sound when I spread you open on my tongue.  _

_ I want everything with you, Stiles. I want our whole lives together-- _

_ But I need you to be patient.  _

_ Thank you, sweetheart, for staying with me, last night.  _

_ Devotedly yours,  _

_ Derek~  _

 

_ Husband,  _

_ Well that’s just unfair.  _

_ I will try to be patient. But don’t be surprised if I come to our table smelling like sex--you can hardly expect me to not get off to the thought of you licking me open.  _

_ I wish it was you, bringing me off.  _

_ Your own,  _

_ S.  _

 

_ ~*~ _

 

Stiles pauses in the doorway. Breakfast is always a pack affair, noisy with the day’s plans and forks clanging against the china. Even Scott joins them most mornings now, going over Stiles’ schedule and plans for the day while the wolves get their orders from Derek. 

So it’s strange--almost alarming--to walk into the dining hall, and find it empty. 

The food is there, and his steaming cup of coffee, but the room is empty and eerily quiet. He swallows down the unease and moves to his seat. 

That’s when he sees it. 

The ring is small, a thin band of burnished iron and a familiar curling design, unassuming on the pale white plate. 

A letter sits next to it, folded neatly, and his fingers tremble as he opens it. 

 

_ My own,  _

_ I humbly offer this final token, my gift of love.  _

_ This was never part of the arrangement we made, but I would very much like to see you wearing my ring, for you to be my husband in truth and not merely in name. I await your decision. _

_ Yours always,  _

 

Stiles let’s his fingers brush over the ring. Once, and then again.

And a smile curls his lips. 


	12. In which a gesture is made and the Governor is called upon.

Derek doesn’t allow himself to think about it. 

He hadn’t liked the idea, leaving the ring where it would be found. It was part of tradition, to offer it without pressure. 

Without pack or pull to sway the decision. This, the gift of love, was the penultimate gift in a courtship and the moment when a rejection was most likely. 

But Stiles was welcomed by the pack, and his own pack--his human friends and family--were already endearing themselves to Derek’s betas. 

There was, he reminded himself, no reason to think Stiles would turn him away. Would reject the gift. Not when he had almost begged for the last one. 

Still. Leaving it was hard. Walking away was harder. But waiting, knowing that Stiles has received his gift--that is the hardest yet. 

There is a meeting with the commerce council that he is late for, and Boyd waits patiently at his side as Derek mounts his black gelding, a sleek showy thing that makes his betas laugh when they see him. 

“Roscoe is gone, this morning,” Erica says lightly and Derek grits his teeth. 

“Check on Satomi’s pack--with Argents in Beacon, I want all weres warned and accounted for.” 

She makes a face, but turns to her little mare without complaint. 

They’re halfway to town when Boyd glances at him, sidelong. “Are you worried?” 

“Were you, when you gave the gift?” Derek asks, curious. He doesn’t talk to his betas about their courting and mating--it’s a public sort of intimacy in packs, a bearing of heart and soul meant for one and witnessed by all. 

It was ill-mannered to speak of, and Derek avoided anything to do with feelings at the best of times. 

“No,” Boyd says, shrugging. “But Erica was mine from the moment we met. Courting was window dressing. In your place--I would be worried.” 

Derek gives him a flat look. “Thanks.” 

The big beta smiles serenely and nudges his warhorse into a canter. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles is sitting on the steps of the library when he sees Derek and Boyd. They’re riding with purpose, and he wonders briefly what has his husband’s attention, when one of the children he’s been reading to stumbles. She shrieks and Stiles curses as he catches her, his ankle twisting under her weight while she struggles against his hold. 

“Rose,” he says, putting a touch of steel in his voice to snap her out of her panic, and she goes limp, staring at him with big, limpid eyes. He runs a hand over her hair and draws her up, ignoring the spike of pain in his ankle. “You’re ok, sweetheart.” 

She sniffles a bit and then sobs, pressing into his chest as he sighs and snuggles her close. 

He looks up and isn’t even a little surprised to see Derek staring at him with wide, curious eyes. 

“What are you doing here, husband?” Derek asks curiously, and Rosie peers up, her eyes going round with awe. 

“Reading and rescuing fair damsels,” Stiles says, tickling Rose and giving Derek a grin. He puts the girl on her feet. “Go find your mama, sweetheart.” 

She gives a clumsy curtsy and scurries off, her scare already forgotten as Stiles pushes himself upright with a wince. “What are you doing?” he asks, curiously. 

“We had a meeting with the commerce council,” he says, eyebrows pulling into a scowl and Stiles makes a face. 

“Dad hated those. It’s the worst part of being king, he always said.” 

Derek looks positively disgruntled and Stiles has a sudden idea, something that makes him nervous but hopeful at the same time. “Come,” he says, moving to where Roscoe. He swings up, wincing a little as he settles himself on the gelding’s back. “Ride with me.” 

 

~*~

 

Stiles is his husband and Derek has seen many sides of him--the haughty prince, the distracted scholar, the polished peer of Society, the sleepy man slumped over his coffee, even the smiling affection he gives to so few people--but he is stunned by this side. 

Stiles trots Roscoe into the middle of the Merchant square, and hands Boyd the reins as before he tugs Derek into the stalls and shops. 

They wander through each one, and Derek watches the same merchants he just argued with, the ones who blocked every proposition and suggestion he proposed with stubborn determination, fall over themselves to fawn over the smiling prince who wanders through their stores.

Stiles buys small purchases from each, and listens as they tell him their concerns, making gentle suggestions before drawing Derek into the conversation, giving a guileless smile as he wanders away to peruse the shelves once more. 

It takes hours and there are several moments when Derek reaches for his limping husband, draining away his pain quietly. But by the end of it, he’s secured enough concessions and agreements that he thinks he can push the new measures through the guild, and his shoulders are beginning to relax. Stiles slips his hand through Derek’s elbow and waves as he leads them back to the waiting horses. 

Stiles is humming as they trot away, a satisfied little smirk on his face that is driving Derek crazy. 

“Dad did the arguing. And then I charmed them, and he talked about his ridiculous son and found a middle ground.” He shrugs. “It’s not difficult--just time consuming and annoying.” 

“Did you help him often?” Derek asks, because it never occurred to him that Stiles being a prince meant he had duties, that he helped his father govern. 

Stiles’ face goes wistful. “Yes. Even if it was only listening--Dad thought I would learn best by being a part of it.” 

“Would--would you help me?” Derek asks, almost shyly. The unacknowledged gift lingers between them, and he knows he should wait--but he  _ liked _ working with Stiles today, liked seeing him with the people of Beacon. 

Stiles pauses, looking at Derek, drawing Roscoe to a halt. “You want that? Me?”

“I want everything you will give me,” Derek says, baldly. “Beyond wanting  _ you _ , you know the people of Beacon. Your help would be invaluable.” 

Stiles nudges Roscoe close to Camaro, leaning across the space between them to kiss him, soft and sweet, chaste when he wants to press harder, into the warmth of Derek’s mouth. He leans back and smiles at Derek, at the dazed look there. 

“I want that. I want to help you.” 

 

~*~

 

He sits in the dark of his room for a long time, turning the ring in his fingers. It’s dark and gleams against his pale skin, warm from his touch and he aches to slip it on. 

He’s studied werewolf culture enough to know what comes next. Derek’s presented the last gift. Stiles can refuse or accept his courtship--return Derek’s final gift, or offer one of his own. 

It’s not a choice, really. He’s known since the gift of knowledge what his answer would be--he only stumbled over  _ what _ his gift would be. 

But as he turns the ring in his fingers, a smile tilts up his lips and he straightens, reaching for his tab. 


	13. In which letters are written and a Observation is held.

_ Husband,  _

_ I have received and treasure your gift. I know that tradition dictates that I reject your gift or offer my own.  _

_ You asked me to be patient. I’m asking the same of you now.  _

_ Always yours,  _

 

_ Sweetheart,  _

_ I told you I want everything you will give me, but I never said what I would give you--and now you ask for patience, like waiting for you is a burden. Let me be very clear, Stiles.  _

_ I would give you everything you ask. There is nothing I would not do to make you happy and safe. Waiting for you is not a hardship--it is my sincere pleasure. I would spend my life waiting for you, if you merely asked.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Derek~  _

 

_ Der,  _

_ I don’t need your whole life in waiting, darling. Only a few days. I would much prefer you spend your days at my side than waiting. _

_ Yours,  _

 

_ My own,  _

_ You’re a dirty tease, sweetheart. Coming to our table, where your father was, smelling like come and sated pleasure? I wanted to ravage you right there. _

 

_ Husband,  _

_ I know. Your betas did too.  _

_ I would have let you.  _

_ Ever yours, _

 

_ Stiles,  _

_ Dammit. I see, now, just how difficult patience and waiting can me.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Derek~  _

 

_ Der,  _

_ Good.  _

_ Think about this, while you sleep alone in your bed: when I touch myself, when I open myself and fuck my fingers, when I come and spill dirty on my bed--it’s your name I call.  _

_ It’s you I want.  _

_ I’m writing this, with come still cooling on my belly, and I wish you were here to clean me and hold me.  _

_ I wish I could smell your want the way you can smell mine.  _

_ Ever yours,  _

 

_ Sweetheart,  _

_ Don’t ever think I don’t want you. I want you every moment. When you stumble to breakfast, in that shirt that shows your throat and chest, when you are sleep soft and dazed--I hate that anyone but me can see you like that, want to wake up next to you like that, always. When you’re bent over your books, and oblivious to the world around, I want to press against you. Not to pull you from your books, but because you are so happy there, and I want to drink it in. You smell delicious, when you’re happy.  _

_ I want you, when you ride Roscoe, when you argue with me, when you’re laughing with your father, when you’re singing in the shower. I want you when you’re sweating from sparring with Scott and when you’re soft-eyed and nodding at Lydia, and when you’re reading to children and rescuing little girls from steps.  _

_ I want you, always, Stiles. I didn’t expect that, and I don’t know how I lived without it.  _

_ I don’t know that I want to remember how I lived without you.  _

_ Always yours,  _

_ Derek~  _

 

_ ~*~ _

 

Stiles is alone in the Palace when the summons comes. A hand delivered letter bearing the sigil of the Alpha Council, addressed to the Governor. 

He stares at it a long time before he huffs and shoves it onto Derek’s desk, and goes about his work. Kira had found out about his book a few weeks ago and was demanding a copy to show a friend at a publishing house in New Tokyo. 

He doesn’t think about it again, until that evening, when he’s sitting with Derek watching a vid he’s seen a hundred times. 

“What did the Alpha Council want?” he asks, and Derek stiffens. 

“What do you mean?” 

Stiles gives Derek an unimpressed look. “Do you ever read your messages?” 

His husband scowls, eyebrows drawn low and Stiles huffs as he stands to retrieve the message. 

He is quiet, while Derek reads, and for long moments after, while the other man sits in still contemplation. 

“What do they want?” he asks, finally. 

“A ceremony. For heroes of the war.”

 

~*~

 

The night of honor and observation was to be held in Beacon, a central territory and an honor to the new governor, on the full moon. 

It gave them less than two weeks to prepare for something Derek didn’t want to begin with. He passed the edict to Stiles and hid as Lady Lydia swept into the palace, her voice ringing cool through the air as she gave her orders. 

The Alphas might be hosting the dinner party, but they would be staying in the Palace, and Lydia would sooner die than present Beacon as anything less than perfect. 

In the madness of it, in the fury and guilt and arguments he had with his sister and mother about the damn party--Derek forgot he was waiting. 

There is once, when Stiles slipped by, and he caught the scent of blood and pain, and his head snapped up, tracking his husband, before Lydia burst in, Erica on her heels, shouting for his attention. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t want Stiles--the letters continue, the polite flirting over their meals, the afternoon rides that have devolved into kissing in the grass and Derek stalking away, painfully hard and frustrated. That hasn’t changed. 

It’s only the rest of the world that seems shaky and uncertain. 

 

~*~

 

The Alpha Council arrives the morning of the full moon, four women and two men who ride into Beacon with only one aide, with little fanfare and no announcement. 

He is in his father’s townhouse, when he hears the clatter of hooves, and John leans over his shoulder, watching. 

“Derek is worried,” Stiles murmurs. 

“Do you know why?” 

The galling truth is--he doesn’t. Derek has told him bits about his time in the war, enough about Kate that he knows Derek feels guilty for his part in it--but he can’t believe that it’s a belief mirrored in the Council. If they blamed him, why make him Governor of Beacon? 

“He’s a good man,” Stiles says, fiercely, and John pauses. Studies his son as he glares out the window, where the Alphas have vanished. 

“Yes, he is,” John murmurs, and slips away. 

 

~*~

 

Erica is dressed in a fitted suit, when she comes for him, and she smirks. “Boss is going to love that,” she says. 

Stiles flushes, but doesn’t respond. It’s rare that he wears his full ceremonial regalia, but John dragged his out and Stiles followed suit. He feels stiff and uncomfortable in the dress uniform, but tucks his cap under one arm and offers the other to the beta. 

She shakes her head and kind of herds him along without touching. “You’re walking into a Palace full of Alphas, Stiles. You smell enough like pack that you don’t need scent marking, and I’m not delivering you up there with anyone but Derek’s scent on your skin.” 

“Is it dangerous?” he asks.

Erica’s eyes glow golden for a moment, her teeth sharper than a human’s as she says gently, “All werewolves are dangerous, Stiles. And alphas? They’re killers.” 

 

~*~

 

Derek is standing at his mother’s elbow, listening to her talk to a beta whose name he can’t recall, when there is a commotion near the door. Talia pauses, her head lifting and Derek tenses. 

None of the Alphas were particular pleased by the way the peerage were acting, aloof and skittish, murmuring quiet insults behind their hands at each other. Laura had gone as far as flashing her eyes at one Lady, before she turned to Derek and said, loudly, “Do they really not know we can hear them?” 

The whispers stopped after that, but the scent of fear and disgust skyrocketed--Derek wasn’t sure it was worth it in the end. 

“His Majesty King John Stilinski,” Deaton says now, pulling Derek into the moment with his cool, even voice. Derek straightens as the King approaches, his gaze on Stiles, “His Highness Stiles Stilinski. Beta Erica Reyes of the Hale Pack.” 

The murmurs pitch up for a moment, and then Talia makes a pleased noise and steps forward, “John, it is so lovely to see you.” 

“Alpha Hale,” he says, a smile in his voice, and Derek remembers abruptly that his mother had lived in Beacon before she became Alpha. 

“And your little Mischief grew up into this fine young man,” Talia says, her tone cooling a touch. Derek frowns at her, but extends a hand that Stiles latches onto, using the grip to pull him forward. 

“My husband, Mother.” 

Talia makes a rumbling noise in her throat, her gaze narrow and assessing. 

“Interesting,” she says, and Derek stiffens, a low growl in his throat. Talia arches an eyebrow at him, curiously.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alpha Hale,” Stiles says, his voice the warm inviting tone that Derek has heard him use before in Society--the one that offers nothing, gives away nothing, while offending none. It’s a smooth glass to match his bland smile, and it makes always makes his hackles raise. 

From the tension in his mother, he isn’t the only one. It’s only that he isn’t going to do anything to soothe it--not when Talia has so effortlessly offended his husband. 

“We were so pleased you chose Beacon to host your Observance.” 

“It’s Derek’s home, now. Where else would it be held?” 

Stiles frowns, and Derek feels a flutter of panic, because he doesn’t want this. 

He doesn’t want adulations, or recognition or anyone to ever hear about his deeds in the war. 

He wants--

God, he wants to run, back to his tiny farm, back to the hunting lodge where he watched Stiles bake, back to a time when life was simple and he only had to worry about Stiles’ accepting his gifts. 

“Derek broke the Argents,” Talia is saying now, a smile on her lips, her eyes cold on his skin. “He killed Gerard, slaughtered half the Argent force. More than that--he found a way to kill Kate Argent’s Berserkers. It was, of course, too late to save his brother, too late for so many of the Hales she killed.” She pauses, and he trembles under Stiles’ hand, forces himself to remain still under her sharp eyes. 

“We can’t win every battle, after all. He was feral, you see. When we dragged the remaining kings and queens to the peace table--Derek was feral. It’s amazing how quickly they broke, seeing a werewolf standing knee deep in corpses, docile at my side.” 

The smile she gives then--Derek feels his gut churn and he spins and bolts. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles stares at her for a long time. “You blame him.” 

Talia’s eyes don’t flicker, but she smiles, tight and cold. “My son is dead because Derek slept with the wrong whore.” 

“Mother,” Laura snaps, and Stiles laughs. 

“Your son is dead because he went to fight for his packmate, something that he  _ clearly _ didn’t learn from his alpha.”

“You know  _ nothing.” _ She snarls, her eyes glinting and Stiles reaches for his pocket watch. Her eyes track the movement and a tiny ripple of movement goes through the werewolves when he flicks it open. 

“I know enough,” he says evenly. “Enough to protect my people from werewolves during the war. I know enough,” he taps the watch and wolfsbane flutters and drifts to the ground, “to kill  _ anyone _ who threatens what’s mine.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Talia breathes. 

Stiles smiles at her, cold and furious. “I will happily slaughter anyone who threatens my family, Talia. I’ve done it before and I would do it again and not lose a moment of sleep. I thought I shared that loyalty with the packs, but I see I’m wrong.” 

Talia looks shaken, her gaze unsure, but her voice is sharp when she says, “It’s  _ his _ fault.” 

It makes her daughter twitch, and Erica skirts closer to him, anxiously. “This will never work,” he says, grinning. “Society will never accept your rule, not if you treat each other like this.” 

“Society is outdated and useless,” another alpha says, approaching from the side. 

“Society keeps us from war,” Stiles snaps, closing the pocket watch and sliding away. “Because what you’re doing--pushing and prodding and antagonizing a apex predator? We did that.  _ Nations _ did that and we tore the world apart.” 

“You think pretty lies are better?” 

“I think civility is better. I think placing the blame where it truly belongs--that’s better. The war that killed your people took my father’s throne and rewrote our lives. And I don’t blame werewolves for that. I blame the Argents who slaughtered Deucalion’s pack.” 

“Your precious Society didn’t teach you that,” Talia says serenely. 

He smiles, “No. Your packs did. We can learn from each other, Alpha Hale. If we are to both survive--we  _ must _ learn from each other.” 

He turns and Talia calls, her voice ringing through the gathered silence. “Where are you going?” 

“To find my husband, Talia. Enjoy your party.” 

She doesn’t respond, and he wants to twitch under the weight of her gaze on his back, but he doesn’t. He just leaves. 


	14. In which a gift is given, and declarations are made.

[ ](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jNQp_AtGFXg/W0VQLaUQmdI/AAAAAAAADng/KYpc45MIvGkBfxQd0IoKCJ1VzRXt2gA2ACLcBGAs/s1600/tumblr_pbo3zdebhe1rzrh0no3_1280.png)

Derek hears him coming.

He isn’t trying to hide it, his boots loud on the wood as he stomps through the halls, and the door to his suit bangs loudly when Stiles pushes it shut.

He thinks about jumping from the balcony, darting to the barns and taking Camaro across the fields. The moon is fat and full in the sky, a hot burn under his skin, his mother’s disgust still thick in his nose.

“She’s wrong.”

“You don’t know that.”

Stiles huffs, but doesn’t come closer. He drops into a chair that creaks alarmingly and gives up a puff of rust, leaning over to tug at his boots.

“I know that you adore your family--even your bossy older sister. I know that you get nightmares about Andrew, still. I know that you hate yourself for Kate, for everything she did. And I know that you are a good man, a good _alpha_ who would rather die than hurt his pack.”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut. “But I didn’t. I _didn’t_ die. My brother did. My _pack_ did.”

“And that still is not your fault,” Stiles says, gently. Boots off, he turns his attention to the buttons on his coat.

“I _killed,_ Stiles,” Derek says, helplessly.

“So have I,” Stiles says and Derek’s head snaps up, gaze wide and shocked. “Before the war. One of the Royal Guard--he was injured, and let go with a generous severance. He turned to drink and gambling, and eventually was found hanging in his rooms, naked. His son, Donovan, was a ward of the crown, for a time. And he hated my father. Blamed him for his father’s death. I heard him, once--he was going to assasinate Dad. I knew he was. I knew if I told Dad, he’d be sent away, but the threat would be there.  It wouldn’t go away just because Donovan was gone. He’d lived too close to us, knew too much--he would simply hire someone and I wouldn’t see it coming.” Stiles blew out a breath and gives Derek a sad smile. “I confronted him and he admitted everything. Laughed about it, and told me I couldn’t stop it--and I killed him. Because if I didn’t, he would kill my father. Would have killed me, and I would rather live with blood on my hands than watch that bastard murder my family.”

Derek shivers, and stares at him.

“We are rulers, Derek,” Stiles says, gently. “I might want to be a novelist and you might long for your farm--but those are not our lives. And rulers walk bloody paths. They always have.”

“We don’t have to be like that,” Derek says hoarsely.

Stiles smiles at him, cups his face gently. “And we will always attempt to be better than that.”

Derek shudders and leans into the hand, turning to press his lips to Stiles palm. “I don’t want to be that person, Stiles.”

“Then don’t. Be the man I know--my husband. And I’ll be yours.”

He inhales sharply, his gaze snapping up to stare at Stiles, eyes wide and hopeful.

Stiles looks, for the first time since he entered the room, nervous. He licks his lips and says, “I would offer you a gift, Alpha.”

His mouth is dry as he watches Stiles pull back, standing and slipping his jacket off, and tugging his shirts over his head, ruffling his hair.

He is all pale, lean planes of smooth skin over lithe muscle and--

Derek makes a noise, broken and hurt and Stiles reaches for him, laces their fingers together.

“This is my gift of acceptance, offered freely. And it hurt like hell and is kinda permanent, so I really hope you’re into that.”

“That--” Derek’s voice breaks and he swallows. “Stiles, that’s my triskelion. Tattooed on your skin.”

Stiles nods and Derek surges up, shoving him into the wall and kissing him roughly, eating the gasp Stiles lets out, licking into his mouth, his hands dragging Stiles closer.

“Do we still have to wait?” Stiles pants.

“There’s a house full of werewolves downstairs,” Derek mutters, licking over his neck.

“Palace. Big place. They can’t hear,” Stiles rolls his hips, a sweet, deliberate grind that has Derek’s mind whiting out and he snarls.

 

~*~

 

Stiles is pale and beautiful, laughing, and breathless as Derek shoves him naked into his bed, squirming against the sheets with a cocky smirk on his lips.

It drops away when Derek swallows his long cock, a high needy keen spilling out, hands clenching in his hair.

Derek loves the way he moves, writhing shameless and eager as Derek sucks him off. He loves the way Stiles rambles, a ceaseless plea for more, for harder, praise and filth falling like sweet rain when Derek fingers him open, the way his mouth drops open and his eyes go sightless when Derek presses into him.

He is gorgeous and perfect, arching into every thrust, skin pale and bruised and so deliberately marked that Derek isn’t sure this is real.

He’s everything Derek never realized he wanted, and it’s that, and the sweet smile Stiles gives him, the barely there kiss that makes him breath out, “I love you.”

Stiles jerks and goes silent as he comes, a endless eternity of heat pulsing over their bellies, and pressure around his cock, and Derek groans as he spills, grinding into Stiles with a moan as he comes hard, knot swelling and wringing a muffled shriek from Stiles as it presses into his prostate, pulsing and throbbing as Derek comes and comes and comes.

When he finally rolls them, letting Stiles sprawl over him while they wait for his knot to go down, Stiles kisses his shoulder, nips at his neck and sighs, sleepily. “Love you too.”

Derek tightens his hold on Stiles and silently promises to never let go.


	15. In which two souls ponder the future

The world changed, after the Last War. It shivered under the weight of hate and death and almost-- _ almost _ \--it broke. 

Almost. 

Humanity was resilient and Society was created, an intricate and delicate dance of rules and etiquette. Turning away from knowledge and technology that once drove the world to its knees. 

And then the werewolves rose to defend themselves, fought back against the world that had torn them apart.

Change was never easy and in the wake of the war that far too many dead and the werewolves in power--everyone realized it was inevitable, and fought that inevitably with the kind of stubborn determination that kept humanity alive in the wake of the Last War. 

No one knew who would win the next war--the bloodless war fought over dinner tables and on dance floors, where Society and pack dynamics clashed. 

Sometimes, he thought there would be no winners. 

That the world was too broken, that another war was inevitable. 

He had seen enough death, fought enough battles, and the idea of another war made him want to weep, made him long for his long-dead wife. 

But sometimes, too--he stood in a hall of pack and Society peerage, and watched his son smiling, throat bare and scarred, his eyes fixed on the alpha who starred back in quiet awe. 

And he hoped. 

 

~*~

 

Derek watches the sunrise from the balcony most mornings. 

He reads the reports sent to him by his Second, by his uncle, by Deaton. 

And he waits, for the sleepy moan from the depths of his bed, the pad of bare feet and the weight of a sleep warm body, all pale skin and love bruised, falling into his lap and snuggling close. 

“Too early,” Stiles mumbles against his shoulder, already half asleep again. 

Derek smiles at his sleepy mate, presses a kiss into his hair and breathes in the scent of him, of  _ them.  _

The day would bring good, and sometimes, it would bring bad. 

It always brought challenges--but in this moment, wrapped up in his mate and the comforting scent of love, he thought, they could face any damn thing the world threw at them. 

 

~*~

 

He walked through a party, his smile bright and fixed and false, and watched the peerage. They stood mixed with werewolves, now. Not all. There were still whispers--but it happened. Lady Lydia leaned into Jackson’s careful embrace. Isaac watched Baroness Allison Argent with besotted eyes. 

Perhaps most surprising--Baron Christopher Argent stood stock still in the corner of the dance floor. 

“Is that the gift of protection?” Stiles asks, delighted, and Derek rumbles an agreement. Already the peerage and assembled packs are whispering, gazes latched on the cocky beta and the Argent who helped end the war. 

Stiles smirks when Chris gives Peter a tense smile and slides the ring danger away, a flush in his cheeks as Peter preens. 

“It’s progress,” he murmurs, and Derek kisses his hair. Stiles smiles. He didn’t expect a political arrangement to lead him to love. 

He didn’t even expect it to work. 

But some days, he hopes it’s done both, an idle passing thought as his hand tightens on Derek’s--because his future, he won’t waste hope on. It’s his, everything either of them have ever wanted, and he’ll fight like hell to keep it. 

And he hopes for the future of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)!


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